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RUE  STORIES 
Old  Houston 
nd  Houstonians 


A  Word  in  Advance 


THESE  STORIES  owe  their  being  largely  to  chance.  The 
whole  series  was  unintentionally  begun.  I  wrote  an 
article  for  the  Houston  Chronicle,  giving  the  correct 
version  of  something  that  occurred  in  Houston  forty  years  ago, 
an  inaccurate  account  of  which  had  appeared  in  one  of  the  news- 
papers. Managing  Editor  Gillespi  liked  my  story  so  much  that 
he  asked  me  to  write  others  of  the  same  kind.  I  agreed  to  do 
so,  thinking  that  I  could  probably  find  material  for  half  a  dozen 
stories.  After  I  got  started,  each  subject  suggested  another, 
and  so  it  has  gone  on,  until  now,  the  half  dozen  has  grown  into 
the  hundreds,  with  the  end  not  yet  in  sight. 

So  many  people  have  written  to  me  asking  that  I  print  the 
stories  in  book  form,  that  I  have  determined  to  do  so,  and  have 
selected  those  found  here  as  being,  in  my  opinion,  the  best. 
These  letters  have  fcome  from  all  parts  of  the  state  and  from 
several  Eastern  and  Northern  states.  Then,  too,  people  are  con- 
stantly writing  to  the  Chronicle  asking  for  back  numbers  con- 
taining the  stories,  showing  the  demand  for  them. 

I  have  enjoyed  writing  these  stories,  for  each  one  has 
brought  back  some  pleasant  memory,  and  I  hope  that  all  those 
into  whose  hands  this  little  book  may  fall,  will  enjoy  reading 
them. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


True  Stories 

of 

Old  Houston  and 
Houstonians 


HISTORICAL  and  PERSONAL 
SKETCHES 

h 
DR.  S.  O.  YOUNG,  Houston,  Texas 


OSCAR  SPRINGER,  Publisher 

Galveston,  Texas 

1913 


. 


1C,  3 


IN  THE  BEGINNING 

I 'SUPPOSE  it  must  have  been  published  many  times,  but  if 
so  it  has  escaped  my  notice  until  the  other  day.    I  refer 
to  the  original  advertisement  of  the  town  of  Houston  by 
the  Allen  Bros.    The  following  is  the  document  in  full,  which 
appeared  originally  in  the  Telegraph,  published  at  that  time  at 
Columbia,  on  the  Brazos  River: 

"THE  TOWN  OF  HOUSTON." 

"Situated  at  the  head  of  navigation  on  the  west  bank  of 
Buffalo  Bayou,  is  now  for  the  first  time  brought  to  public  notice, 
because,  until  now,  the  proprietors  were  not  ready  to  offer  to 
the  public,  with  the  advantages  of  capital  and  improvements. 

'''The  town  of  Houston  is  located  at  a  point  on  the  river 
which  must  ever  command  the  trade  of  the  largest  and  richest 
portions  of  Texas.  By  reference  to  the  map  it  will  be  seen 
that  the  trade  of  San  Jacinto,  Spring  Creek,  New  Kentucky, 
and  the  Brazos,  above  and  below  Fort  Bend,  must  necessarily 
come  to  this  place,  and  will  at  this  time  warrant  the  employ- 
ment of  at  least  $1,000,000  of  capital,  and  when  the  rich  lands 
of  this  country  shall  be  settled  a  trade  will  flow  to  it,  making 
it,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  great  commercial  emporium  of  Texas. 

"The  town  of  Houston  is  distant  15  miles  from  the  Brazos 
River,  30  miles  a  little  north  of  east  from  San  Felipe,  60  miles 
from  Washington,  40  miles  from  Lake  Creek,  30  miles  south- 
west from  New  Kentucky  and  15  miles  by  water  and  8  miles 
by  land  above  Harrisburg. 

"Tidewater  runs  to  this  place  and  the  lowest  depth  of  water 
is  about  six  feet.  Vessels  from  New  York  and  New  Orleans 
can  sail  without  obstacle  to  this  place,  and  steamboats  of  the 
largest  class  can  run  down  to  Galveston  in  eight  or  ten  hours 
in  all  seasons  of  the  year. 

"It  is  but  a  few  hours  sail  down  the  bay,  where  one  can 
make  excursions  of  pleasure  and  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  fish,  fowl, 
oysters  and  sea-bathing. 

"Galveston  harbor,  being  the  only  one  in  which  vessels  draw- 
ing a  large  draft  of  water  can  navigate,  must  necessarily  render 
the  island  the  great  naval  and  commercial  depot  of  the  country. 

"The  town  of  Houston  must  be  the  place  where  arms,  ammu- 
nition and  provisions  for  the  government  will  be  stored,  be- 
cause, situated  in  the  very  heart  of  the  country,  it  combines 
security  and  means  of  easy  distribution,  and  a  national  armory 
will  no  doubt  very  soon  be  at  this  point. 

"There  is  no  place  in  Texas  more  healthy,  having  an  abund- 
ance of  excellent  spring  water  and  enjoying  the  sea  breeze  in 
all  its  freshness. 


TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 


"No  place  in  Texas  possesses  so  many  advantages  for  build- 
ing, having  fine  ash,  cedar  and  oak  in  inexhaustible  quantities, 
also  the  tall  and  beautiful  magnolia  grows  in  abundance.  In 
the  vicinity  are  fine  quarries  of  stone. 

"Nature  seems  to  have  designated  this  place  for  the  future 
seat  of  government.  It  is  handsome  and  beautifully  elevated, 
salubrious  and  well-watered  and  is  now  in  the  very  center  of 
population  and  will  be  so  for  a  long  time  to  come. 

"It  combines  two  important  advantages — a  communication 
with  the  coast  and  with  foreign  countries  and  with  different 
portions  of  the  republic.  As  the  country  shall  improve,  rail- 
roads will  become  in  use  and  will  be  extended  from  this  point 
to  the  Brazos  and  up  the  same,  and  also  from  this  up  to  the 
headwaters  of  the  San  Jacinto,  embracing  that  rich  country, 
and  in  a  few  years  the  whole  trade  of  the  upper  Brazos  will 
make  its  way  into  Galveston  Bay  through  this  channel. 

"Preparations  are  making  to  erect  a  water  sawmill,  and  a 
large  public  house  for  accommodation  will  soon  be  opened. 
Steamboats  now  run  in  this  river  and  will,  in  a  short  time, 
commence  running  regularly  to  the  island.  The  proprietors 
offer  lots  for  sale  at  moderate  terms  to  those  who  desire  to 
improve  them  and  invite  the  public  to  examine  for  themselves. 

"(Signed)  A.   C.   ALLEN,   for 

"A.  C.  &  J.  K.  ALLEN." 

"August  30,   1836,   6m." 

That  old  document  is  as  fine  a  piece  of  advertising  as  any 
turned  out  by  the  "artists"  of  today.  It  has  one  great  merit, 
that  of  truthfulness,  for  whether  intentionally  or  not  the 
Aliens  told  almost  the  literal  truth  in  every  line  they  wrote, 
for  all  that  they  forecast  has  come  true  a  thousandfold. 

I  was  glad  to  come  across  that  old  advertisement  for  it  settles 
two  stories  that  have  been  told  so  often  that  everybody  has 
grown  to  believe  them  to  be  true.  No  doubt,  impressed  by 
the  fulfillment  of  so  many  prophecies  made  by  the  Aliens,  some 
writers  have  deemed  it  safe  to  add  a  little  to  them,  and  have 
allowed  their  imaginations  somewhat  free  play.  An  instance 
of  this  is  the  story  that  when  they  were  laying  out  the  streets 
and  blocks  for  Houston,  one  of  the  Aliens  placed  his  pencil  on 
"Railroad  Street"  and  remarked  that  the  future  railroad  would 
have  its  start  right  there.  Unfortunately  for  this  story,  there 
was  no  Railroad  Street  laid  out  by  the  Aliens,  and  the  street 
that  now  bears  that  name  was  not  created  until  over  20  years 
after  the  Aliens  laid  out  their  town.  Their  city  was  bounded 
on  the  north  by  Buffalo  Bayou.  All  the  territory  north  of  the 
bayou  was  densely  wooded  and  they  paid  no  attention  to  it. 
Now,  since  Railroad  Street  is  on  the  north  side  of  the  bayou, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 


and  got  its  name  from  the  railroads  that  run  over  it,  it  is  quite 
evident  that  the  Aliens  could  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  nam- 
ing it,  when  the  city  was  laid  out. 

Another  story  destroyed  by  that  advertisement  is  the  orie 
about  Mrs.  A.  C.  Allen  naming  the  town.  She  may  have  named 
it  and  if  she  ever  said  she  did  I  know  she  did,  but  not  in  the 
way  the  story  goes.  Following  is  the  story:  While  the  Texas 
congress  was  in  session,  the  Allen  brothers  were  trying  to  find 
a  suitable  name  for  their  city.  One  of  them  consulted  his  sis- 
ter, Mrs.  A.  C.  Allen,  who  without  hesitation  said:  "Name  it 
Sam  Houston."  She  also  offered  to  write  to  General  Houston, 
who  was  then  at  Columbia  and  ask  his  permission  to  name  the 
town  after  him.  She  wrote  the  letter  and  a  few  days  later 
received  a  letter  from  him  in  which  he  said,  "Leave  off  the  'Sam' 
and  call  it  'Houston'." 

The  fatal  point  for  that  story  is  the  fact  that  the  Texas 
congress,  which  the  story  says  President  Houston  was  attend- 
ing, did  not  convene  at  Columbia  until  October  3,  1836,  while 
the  Allen  brothers  were  advertising  the  sale  of  town  lots  in  the 
"Town  of  Houston"  on  August  30,  or  over  a  month  previous  to 
any  possible  date  for  the  story. 


EARLY  HANGINGS  IN  HOUSTON. 

IT  IS  an  historical  fact  that  at  the  first  sesssion  of  court 
held  in  Harrisburg  County,  as  Harris  was  then  called,  two 
men  were  found  guilty  of  murder  and  sentenced  to  death. 
It  is  stated  that  those  two  men  were  hanged  immediately  be- 
cause the   jail   was   uncomfortably   cold   and   the   kind-hearted 
judge  did  not  want  the  prisoners  to  suffer  unduly. 

The  court  sentence  is  true,  no  doubt,  but  the  story  about  the 
jail  being  too  uncomfortable  must  be  taken  with  a  large  pinch 
of  salt,  since  there  was  no  jail  to  be  uncomfortable.  The  first 
jail  was  not  built  for  at  least  two  years  after  the  date  of  that 
incident.  By  the  way,  that  first  jail  was  a  curiosity.  It  had 
neither  windows  nor  doors.  It  was  simply  a  one-story  log  house 
with  a  flat  roof.  On  its  top  was  a  trap  door.  This  was  raised, 
a  ladder  was  lowered  and  the  prisoner  went  down  into  the  jail. 
Then  the  ladder  was  withdrawn,  the  trap  closed,  and  the  pris- 
oner was  left  to  meditate  on  his'  sins. 

The  first  legal  hanging  in  Houston,  about  which  old  citizens 
know,  took  place  many  years  after  the  date  of  the  reported 
hangings.  It  was  that  of  a  man  named  Hyde.  He  had  waylaid 
and  murdered  a  man  and  had  then  left  the  state  and  gone  to 
Louisiana  or  Mississippi.  Someone  recognized  him  there  and 


8  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

reported  the  fact  to  the  authorities  here.  Proper  papers  were 
made  out  and  Hyde  was  arrested  and  brought  back.  That  was 
in  1853,  and  the  hanging  took  place  in  what  was  afterwards 
known  as  Hangsman  Grove  just  on  the  southeast  corner  of  the 
old  cemetery  out  of  the  San  Felipe  Road.  At  that  time  and  for 
many  years  after,  that  place  was  away  out  in  the  country,  but 
is  now  thickly  settled,  with  blocks  of  houses  far  beyond  it. 

Captain  Thorn.  Hogan  was  sheriff  of  Harris  County  at  the 
time  and  was  so  nervous  and  excited  that  he  stood  on  the  trap 
with  the  condemned  man  and  was  about  to  cut  the  rope  that 
held  it  in  position,  but  was  dragged  off  before  he  could  do  so. 

The  next  execution  to  take  place  out  there  was  that  of  a 
negro  named  Johnson,  in  1868,  followed  about  two  years  later 
by  the  execution  of  another  negro  named  Johnson.  I  witnessed 
both  of  these  and  at  the  last  one  I  learned  something  that  has 
done  me  more  good  and  helped  me  to  have  faith  in  my  fellow 
man  than  anything  that  has  ever  occurred  to  me.  I  suppose 
every  reader  of  these  lines  has  heard  one  or  more  honorable 
man  get  on  the  witness  stand  in  court  and  swear  to  something 
that  was  not  true.  Such  swearing  is  not  confined  to  any  one 
class,  but  the  very  best  men — men  of  the  highest  integrity  have 
been  guilty  of  it.  The  majority  of  people  put  them  down  as 
willful  liars  and  let  it  go  at  that,  without  attempting  to  go 
further.  Not  so  with  me.  I  have  faith  in  them  and  know  that 
they  are  telling  what  they  think  is  true.  The  reason  for  my 
feeling  that  way  is  explained  by  this  incidence.  When  the 
last  negro  was  hanged,  I  was  standing  where  I  could  see  him 
plainly.  I  saw  the  hangsman  adjust  the  rope  about  his  neck 
and  fit  the  knot  under  his  left  ear.  I  was  on  the  right  side. 
The  negro  wore  a  white  shirt  with  a  big,  turned-down  collar. 
When  the  drop  fell  I  saw  the  rope  peel  back  the  black  skin 
for  about  an  inch,  leaving  the  white  flesh  exposed  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  several  large  drops  of  black  looking  blood  formed 
on  the  wound,  slowly  trickled  down  and  fell  on  the  white 
collar. 

After  the  negro  was  cut  down  I  went  with  the  doctor  to  the 
old  pest  house  on  the  bank  of  the  bayou  to  see  the  postmortem 
examination  he  was  going  to  make.  Of  course  the  first  thing 
I  looked  for  was  the  wound  on  the  neck,  but,  to  my  amazement, 
I  found  none.  The  skin  was  unbroken,  not  even  scratched. 
The  truth  is  that  I  had  simply  seen  something  that  I  expected 
to  see,  without  knowing  that  I  expected  to  see  it.  I  was  greatly 
excited,  but  was  not  conscious  that  I  was  so.  Ever  since  then 
when  I  have  heard  absurd  and  palpably  false  statements  made 
in  court,  by  reputable  men,  I  have  felt  that  those  making  them 
were  telling  the  truth,  or  at  least  what  they  thought  was  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 


truth.  I  know  that  if  occasion  had  arisen,  and  I  had  not  have 
seen  the  negro's  body  after  it  had  been  cut  down,  I  would  have 
willingly  staked  my  life  betting  that  the  rope  had  cut  his  neck 
exactly  as  I  thought  it  had.  Those  two  Johnsons  were  the 
last  men  executed  at  Hangsman  Grove,  for  after  that,  all  execu- 
tions took  place  in  the  jail  or  jail  yard.  The  general  idea  is 
that  many  men  were  hanged  out  there,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 
only  three  executions  took  place  there.  That  of  Hyde  and  the 
two  negroes. 

*  *  * 

SOME    OF   THE    NOTED    BAD    MEN. 

I  HAD  a  most  interesting  talk  a  few  evenings  ago  with  my 
old  friend,  Dr.  William  Daniels.  I  know  of  no  one  who  has 
had  a  more  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  thrilling  days 
of  Texas  and  the  men  who  furnished  the  thrills.  The  doctor, 
having  served  as  one  of  the  surgeons  of  Sibley's  Brigade  on 
the  Rio  Grande  and  in  New  Mexico  and  Arizona  during  the 
civil  war,  had  exceptional  opportunities  for  knowing  all  the 
real  "bad  men"  of  that  day.  It  is  pretty  safe  to  say  that  from 
the  beginning  to  the  end  one  or  more  of  them  was  connected 
with  his  command  at  some  time.  The  doctor,  while  one  of  the 
quietest  and  most  peaceable  gentlemen  and  one,  too,  had  he 
not  practiced  medicine  for  many  years,  one  might  safely  say 
had  never  killed  a  man,  always  took  great  interest  in  "bad  men" 
and  made  a  study  of  them. 

"One  hears  often  of  the  gameness  of  'bad  men',"  he  said. 
"They  are  game,  of  course,  but  so  are  you,  so  am  I  and  so  are 
90  per  cent  of  the  gentlemen  one  knows.  It  takes  more  than 
gameness  to  make  a  desperado  or  bad  man,  and  that  fact  was 
recognized  by  the  people  who  first  gave  them  the  name  of  des- 
peradoes. Cold-blooded  murderers  who  killed  merely  for  the 
pleasure  of  killing  and  who  gave  their  victims  no  show  at  all, 
should  be  classed  as  human  fiends  and  not  be  dignified  by  call- 
ing them  'bad  men.'  Billy  the  Kid  belonged  to  that  class.  He 
killed  just  as  a  wild  animal  kills — merely  for  the  pleasure  it 
gave  him  to  see  his  victims  die.  He  was  a  fiend  in  human 
shape  and  should  have  no  place  in  the  honorable  (?)  list  of 
killers. 

"The  true  'bad  man'  differed  from  the  ordinary  man  in  many 
ways,  the  main  one  being  his  absolute  indifference  to  taking 
human  life.  The  only  care  he  took  about  the  matter  was  to 
have  the  semblance  of  being  in  the  right  before  he  acted.  Ben 
Thompson,  for  instance,  was  noted  for  never  firing  the  first 
shot.  He  always  allowed  the  other  fellow  to  shoot  at  him  be- 
fore he  shot.  It  never  required  but  one  of  his  shots  to  get  his 


10  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

man,  and  both  he  and  the  man  knew  that.  No  doubt  it  had 
influence  in  getting  the  other  fellow's  goat,  for  I  don't  think 
any  of  Ben's  many  antagonists  ever  succeeded  in  hitting  him, 
while  if  he  ever  missed  one  of  them  the  fact  is  not  on  record. 

"I  knew  Cain  Norton,  Tom  Clark,  King  Fisher,  Ben  Thompson, 
Billy  Thompson,  Mat  Woodlief  and  others  of  lesser  prominence. 
There  was  one  who,  had  he  lived,  would  have  made  his  mark. 
That  was  Buck  Stacy,  whose  career  was  cut  short  by  General 
John  R.  Baylor,  who  had  him  court-martialed  and  shot  for  kill- 
ing a  fellow  soldier  after  Baylor  had  issued  an  order  against 
any  further  private  killings.  Buck  was  really  a  very  game  man 
and  had  all  the  elements  about  him  that  go  to  make  the  real 
'bad  man.' 

"The  gamest  man  among  all  the  game  ones  was  Cain  Norton. 
In  all  his  private  wars  I  don't  believe  he  ever  gave  himself  a 
single  thought.  His  own  safety  was  a  matter  of  utter  indiffer- 
ence to  him.  He  made  no  calculations  about  the  future  or  the 
present,  except  to  get  his  man,  which  he  always  did.  On  one 
occasion  I  saw  him  when  another  'bad  man'  had  the  drop  on 
him.  Cain  had  only  a  knife,  while  the  other  fellow  had  a  pistol. 
Cain  first  laughed  at  him,  and  then  cursed  and  taunted  him, 
daring  him  to  shoot.  He  was  willing  to  risk  being  killed  so 
that  he  would  get  a  chance  to  close  in  with  his  knife  and  take 
the  fellow  with  him.  The  man  he  was  facing  had  a  reputation 
as  a  killer,  but  Cain's  coolness  got  his  goat  and  he  ended  by 
backing  out  of  the  door  and  leaving  town. 

"Tom  Clark  was  another  cool  one.  I  have  often  thought 
about  Tom's  case  and  have  concluded  that  among  some  of  his 
ancestors  was  one  of  those  old  knights  errant,  who  spent  their 
time  hunting  up  wrongs  or  imaginary  wrongs  of  other  people, 
or  doing  something  for  the  advancement  of  their  lady  love. 
Tom  was  a  great  lady's  man  and  would  fight  for  the  protection 
of  any  woman,  the  wrinkled  old  hag  as  quickly  as  for  the  fair- 
est girl.  One  or  two  notches  on  his  pistol's  handle  represented 
the  exit  of  men  who  had  so  far  forgotten  themselves  as  to  strike 
women  in  Tom's  presence.  It  was  that  knightly  feature  in  his 
character  that  led  to  his  taking  off.  One  Sunday  morning  Tom 
was  in  the  old  market  house  in  San  Antonio  when  a  Mexican 
struck  a  woman  in  the  face  with  his  hand.  Tom  knew  none  of 
the  people,  but  he  promptly  bent  his  six  shooter  over  the  fel- 
low's head.  The  chap  drew  a  knife  and  made  for  Tom,  who 
shot  him  dead.  There  was  a  big  crowd  of  Mexicans  there  and 
they  made  a  rush  for  Tom.  He  fired  three  shots  and  got  three 
of  them.  Then  the  cylinder  of  his  pistol  got  jammed  and  he 
snapped  on  an  empty  chamber  and  then,  hurling  the  useless  pis- 
tol in  their  faces,  folded  his  arms  and  quietly  waited  the  in- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  11 

evitable.  About  20  Mexicans  mounted  him  with  knives  and 
when  they  got  through  they  had  him  cut  into  shoestrings. 

"Cain  Norton  was  killed  in  one  of  the  battles  over  in  Louisiana, 
and,  so  far  as  I  can  recall,  he  was  the  only  one  who  met  a  soldier's 
death  among  the  whole  number.  Every  one  of  them  died  with 
his  boots  on,  however. 

"If  I  could  find  time  I  would  write  a  book  telling  of  those 
stirring  days  and  of  the  men  who  kept  things  at  fever  heat  all 
the  time.  That  would  be  one  book  where  style  and  literary 
excellence  would  be  at  a  discount,  for  the  contents  of  the  book 
would  carry  it  along." 


KU  KLUX  DAYS  . 

IN  1868  reconstruction  days  were  on  in  full  blast  all  over 
Texas,  and  Houston,  being  so  prominent  a  central  point 
both  in  commercial  and  political  matters,  came  in  for  a 
large  share  of  shame  and  outrage.  The  "black  belt"  over  on  the 
Brazos  being  so  near,  it  was  an  easy  thing  for  the  scalawags 
and  carpetbaggers  to  bring  negro  voters  by  the  hundred  when- 
ever a  so-called  election  was  held.  There  was  no  registration 
required  and  all  that  was  necessary  was  to  have  a  red  or  blue 
ticket  or  a  white  one  with  a  big  flag  painted  on  it,  so  that  the 
ignorant  negro  could  tell  what  ticket  to  vote,  and  the  Republican 
leaders  were  assured  of  success  in  advance.  Governor  A.  J. 
Davis  had  appointed  the  negro  state  guard  a  special  police, 
and  had  suspended  habeas  corpus  and  given  these  negroes  the 
right  to  make  arrests  on  their  own  judgment  without  writ  or 
any  legal  process  whatever.  Not  content  with  this,  the  scala- 
wags and  carpetbaggers  went  even  further  in  their  effort  to  put 
the  negro  above  the  white  man.  They  organized  the  Union 
League,  an  organization  formed  for  the  sole  purpose  of  con- 
trolling the  ignorant  negro  votes  and  boosting  the  worthless 
white  men,  who  were  out  for  everything  in  sight,  into  office. 

There  was  only  one  voting  place  for  the  whole  county  and 
city  at  first — the  court  house — but  later  this  was  changed  and 
the  country  people  were  allowed  to  vote  in  their  own  precincts. 
Everybody  in  Houston,  though,  had  to  vote  at  the  court  house 
and  this  was  done  because  it  enabled  the  Republicans  to  control 
things  to  suit  themselves.  It  is  almost  incredible  the  power  the 
scalawags  had  over  the  negroes.  They  owned  and  controlled 
them  like  so  many  dumb  animals  and  voted  them,  not  in  blocks, 
but  as  a  solid  unit. 

With  so  many  imported  negro  votes  in  the  field,  the  white 
men  found  themselves  in  a  hopeless  minority,  but  be  it  said  to 


12  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

their  honor  and  glory,  they  did  their  duty  as  voters  and  citizens, 
and  that  too  under  difficulties  that  were  at  times  almost  insur- 
mountable. 

In  order  to  reach  the  voting  place  each  voter  had  to  get  in 
line  and  keep  his  place,  too.  If  he  stepped  aside  even  for  a 
moment,  unless  he  were  a  negro  he  forfeited  his  place  and  was 
forced  to  take  a  new  one  at  the  end  of  the  line  and  begin  all 
over  again.  Long  before  the  polls  opened  there  were  hundreds 
of  negroes  and  as  many  white  men  as  could  get  there  in  line. 
This  line  was  often  one  or  two  blocks  long  and  two  men  abreast. 
Only  two  men  were  admitted  to  the  polls  at  once  so  the  voting 
was  long  drawn  out  and  tedious.  Extending  from  the  court 
house  down  to  the  room  where  the  voting  took  place  was  a 
double  line  of  Federal  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  and  every 
free  American  citizen,  black  or  white,  had  to  pass  between  a 
line  of  bayonets  to  express  his  will  at  the  ballot  box. 

Republican  strikers  and  henchmen  were  continually  passing 
along  the  line  of  voters  and  were  swelling  the  Republican  ma- 
jority by  slipping  belated  negroes  into  the  line  ahead  of  the 
white  men.  It  was  a  great  outrage  but  it  worked  all  the  same 
and  gave  the  Republican  managers  absolute  control  of  every- 
thing. Of  course,  the  voting  time  was  limited,  which  enabled 
them  to  shut  out  the  white  vote  in  part  if  not  in  whole.  The 
negroes  in  the  advance  voted  leisurely,  consuming  as  much 
time  as  possible,  thus  holding  back  the  line.  When  a  white 
man  showed  up  he  was  put  through  a  sharp  questioning;  his 
right  to  vote  was  contested  and  every  obstacle  possible  was 
placed  in  his  way.  Finally  he  was  either  allowed  to  vote  or 
was  thrown  out,  and  the  negroes  were  allowed  to  vote  rapidly 
in  order  to  make  up  lost  time.  I  have  known  of  old  citizens, 
holding  their  places  in  the  line  for  hours  and  then  losing  their 
votes  by  having  the  polls  close  on  them  promptly  at  6  o'clock, 
or  just  about  the  time  the  white  voters  would  reach  the  polls. 

Now,  conditions  such  as  these  were  enough  to  drive  men  crazy 
and  irresponsible,  but  yet,  strange  to  say,  there  was  very  little 
rioting  or  bloodshed.  Most  of  the  lawlessness  came  from  the 
other  side  and  Davis'  state  guard,  all  negroes,  did  more  to 
overthrow  the  Republicans  and  scalawags  than  all  the  other 
causes  combined.  This  was  in  two  ways.  The  outrages  com- 
mitted by  the  negro  policemen  enraged  the  whites  and  the 
punishment  meted  out  by  the  whites  terrified  the  negroes  and 
their  worthless  backers,  causing  them  to  become  less  open  and 
aggressive  in  their  diabolical  work. 

It  is  really  hard  to  believe  at  this  later  day  the  outrages  per- 
petrated by  the  negro  state  guards.  By  the  authority  given 
them  by  Governor  Davis  they  were  supreme  and  above  all 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  13 

local  authority.  They  arrested  whomever  they  pleased.  Little 
things  like  making  a  complaint  or  securing  a  warrant  for  an 
arrest  cut  no  figure  at  all.  They  generally  went  in  bunches  of 
four  or  five  and  were  heavily  armed.  It  was  no  unusual  thing 
for  them  to  stop  good  citizens  on  the  streets  or  county  roads, 
cross-examine  them  in  the  most  insolent  manner  and  then 
curse  them,  using  the  vilest  language  in  an  effort  to  make 
them  do  something  so  they  could  have  an  excuse  for  killing 
them.  They  did  kill  a  great  many  men  in  various  parts  of  the 
state,  but  as  the  only  witnesses  to  these  killings  were  them- 
selves, they  never  had  the  least  trouble. 

Things  were  in  this  shape  when  the  climax  came.  Three  or 
four  of  these  negro  police  were  in  Brenham  sitting  on  a  bench 
in  the  public  square.  A  highly  respected  citizen  and  merchant 
by  the  name  of  Ledbetter  started  across  the  square  from  his 
store  to  go  to  the  postoffice.  He  passed  some  distance  from  the 
negroes  and  being  hard  of  hearing,  did  not  hear  them  when  they 
called  to  him  and  demanded  to  know  where  he  was  going.  They 
jumped  up  and  ordered  him  to  halt.  Still  not  hearing  them  he 
continued  on  his  way.  He  had  taken  only  a  few  steps  when 
he  fell  dead,  riddled  by  bullets  from  the  negroes'  guns  and  pis- 
tols. The  murder  was  so  cold-blooded  and  unprovoked  that 
the  whole  community  rose  in  arms.  The  negroes  made  their 
escape,  but  the  black  flag  had  been  raised  and  from  that  mo- 
ment Davis'  state  guards  were  doomed  to  dogs'  deaths  wherever 
found.  None  of  them  was  ever  arrested  for  anything  he  had 
done,  because  when  they  were  found  they  were  wiped  out. 
They  were  placed  in  the  same  class  with  snakes,  wolves  and 
other  undesirable  things  and  the  average  white  man  thought 
no  more  of  killing  one  of  them  than  he  could  have  thought  of 
killing  a  snake.  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  true  or  not  but 
it  was  currently  reported  and  believed,  that  after  the  murder 
of  Ledbetter  not  a  single  member  of  Davis'  negro  state  guards, 
originally  about  80  strong,  ever  died  a  natural  death. 

This  change  of  front  on  the  part  of  the  white  men  had  a 
salutary  effect  on  the  negroes.  They  became  less  bold  and  open, 
but  the  carpetbaggers  and  scalawags  maintained  their  hold  on 
them  through  great  political  organizations. 

The  time  was  now  ripe  for  an  organized  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  whites  and  that  fact  was  recognized.  One  afternoon  I 
was  seated  in  front  of  the  old  Capitol  Hotel,  where  the  Rice 
Hotel  now  stands,  in  company  with  Colonel  Jones,  a  young 
lawyer  who  had  make  quite  a  reputation  as  a  Confederate  offi- 
cer and  soldier;  Major  Crank,  Captain  Charley  Evans  and  one 
or  two  others.  After  a  desultory  conversation  Colonel  Jones 
asked  me  abruptly  if  I  believed  in  white  man  supremacy.  Of 


14  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

course  my  aaswer  was  in  the  affirmative.  He  then  asked  if 
I  was  willing  to  take  part  in  a  movement  to  insure  white  su- 
premacy. I  told  him  I  was.  He  then  told  me  that  a  movement 
was  on  foot  to  organize  the  white  men  and  he  wanted  me  to 
join  the  organization.  I  agreed  and  on  the  following  Tuesday 
night  I  was  initiated  in  the  Texas  Klu  Klux,  though  it  was 
known  by  a  different  name.  I  was  the  first  man  initiated,  my 
number  being  eleven.  There  were  ten  charter  members,  Colonel 
Jones  being  No.  1,  Captain  Evans  No.  2,  Major  Clark  No.  3  and  I 
forget  the  others,  but  I  do  remember  that  the  late  General 
C.  C.  Beavens  was  No.  10,  but  being  a  strict  Catholic  the  priest 
objected  to  his  belonging  to  a  secret  society  and  he  never  took 
part  in  the  organization.  Aside  from  the  advantage  gained  by 
making  the  order  as  mysterious  as  possible  I  could  never  see 
reason  for  any  secrecy,  for  it  was  an  absolutely  lawful  associa- 
tion, and  its  members  were  sworn  to  do  all  in  their  power  to 
maintain  the  supremacy  of  the  white  men  by  lawful  means 
and  to  restore  law  and  order. 

We  picked  our  men  and  in  less  than  a  month  we  had  over 
300  members  in  Houston  and  the  order  had  extended  to  nearby 
towns.  In  a  month  or  two  the  order  had  gone  all  over  Texas, 
and  had  thousands  of  members.  The  idea  of  profound  mystery 
was  carried  out  in  every  way.  Members  were  known  only  by 
numbers,  and  no  written  record  was  ever  made  or  kept.  When 
investigations  were  necessary  or  when  any  outside  work  was 
to  be  done  no  one  ever  knew  who  was  chosen  to  do  the  work 
except  the  general  and  those  who  were  chosen.  Of  course  the 
negroes,  loyal  leagues  and  carpetbaggers  became  greatly  excited 
when  they  discovered  the  existence  of  our  organization  and 
they  made  every  effort  to  find  out  something  about  us.  That 
they  could  not  do  because  there  was  absolutely  nothing  to  find 
out.  I  belonged  to  the  order  from  the  day  of  its  organization 
until  it  was  dissolved  and  I  never  knew  of  an  unlawful  act 
done  by  it,  nor  of  one  done  by  some  over  zealous  or  silly  mem- 
ber that  was  not  promptly  rebuked.  The  order  accomplished 
its  object  the  very  moment  it  was  organized,  for  its  mere 
existence,  surrounded  as  it  were  with  so  much  mystery,  struck 
terror  to  the  negro  heart  and  caused  their  white  backers  to 
pause  and  take  notice.  During  a  small  riot  and  threatened 
uprising  of  the  negroes  one  Sunday  morning  the  old  market 
bell  was  tolled  in  a  peculiar  way  by  some  unknown  person. 
Within  a  few  minutes  several  hundred  men  armed  with  shot- 
guns and  pistols  suddenly  appeared  on  Main  Street  and  the 
negroes  and  their  white  friends  disappeared  as  suddenly.  But, 
as  Kipling  says,  that  is  another  story,  and  as  it  is  rather  an  inter- 
esting one,  I  shall  reserve  it  for  another  time. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  15 

HOOD'S     BRIGADE'S    MASCOT. 

DURING  the  winter  of  1869   I  was  sitting  in  the  reading 
room  of  the  old  St.  Charles  Hotel  in  New  Orleans,  when 
I  saw  in  a  stray  copy  of  the  Houston  Telegraph  the  fol- 
lowing startling  headline: 

"DEATH  OF  JAMES  LONGSTREET." 

Naturally  I  supposed  that  General  James  Longstreet,  the  great 
Confederate  general  and  the  loved  and  admired  leader  of  the 
Texas  brigade  in  Virginia,  which  brigade  was  so  immediately 
under  his  command,  was  the  'Longstreet  referred  to.  I  read 
the  article  eagerly  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  it  was  the  death 
of  a  famous  mule  rather  than  that  of  the  famous  general  that 
was  chronicled.  That  mule  was  famous  indeed,  for  it  had  the 
distinction  of  being  the  "mascot"  of  Hood's  Texas  Brigade  in 
the  army  of  Northern  Virginia. 

Just  where  Jim  Longstreet  came  from  I  never  knew.  All  I 
know  is  that  Major  W.  D.  Denney,  who  was  commissary  of  the 
brigade,  owned  him  as  early  as  1862  and  that  Jim  was  a  con- 
spicuous object  around  the  commissary  wagons  during  the  four 
years  of  the  war.  Major  Denney  was  killed  at  Elthams  Landing 
the  first  time  the  brigade  was  under  fire,  on  May  7,  1862,  and 
was  succeeded  by  Major  Robert  Burns,  who  fell  heir  to  the 
mule  and  also  to  a  big  gray  horse  owned  by  Major  Denney.  I 
mention  these  facts  so  as  to  get  Jim  Longstreet's  war  record 
straight.  He  shared  in  the  glory  of  the  first  battle,  though 
from  a  safe  distance,  and  laid  down  his  ears  at  Appomattox. 
Jim  was  a  beautiful  animal.  He  was  about  the  size  of  a  small 
Shetland  pony,  perfectly  formed,  graceful,  quick  in  his  move- 
ments and,  though  by  no  means  lazy,  he  never  did  a  lick  of 
work  in  his  life.  He  was  a  camp  follower  in  the  strictest  sense 
of  the  word,  and  before  the  war  had  continued  very  long  he 
was  considered  the  very  best  authority  on  the  nearness  of  a 
fight.  At  the  sound  of  the  first  gun  Jim  would  break  for  the 
rear  and  remain  there  until  the  trouble  was  over.  He  was  a 
great  forager  and  would  go  off  alone  on  private  expeditions, 
but  at  the  sound  of  a  cannon  he  would  duck  his  head  and  make 
a  bee  line  for  the  wagons.  His  track  was  about  the  size  of 
a  silver  dollar  and  was  easily  recognized,  so  that  it  frequently 
served  as  a  guide  for  the  two-legged  foragers  to  find  camp.  Jim 
shared  in  all  the  hardships  through  which  the  army  passed,  but 
they  seemed  to  do  him  good  instead  of  harm,  for  he  was  always 
fat  and  sassy.  He  was  with  the  brigade  when  it  went  to  help 
Bragg  out  at  Chickamauga  and  in  Tennessee.  He  followed  Lee 
to  Gettysburg  and  finally,  as  already  remarked,  laid  down  his 
ears  at  Appomattox.  When  the  end  came  Major  Burns  brought 


16  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

his  gray  war  horse  and  Jim  to  Texas.  How  he  managed  to  do 
it  is  a  mystery,  but  he  did  it  and  late  in  1865  he  arrived  in 
Houston  with  both  animals.  He  presented  James  Longstreet 
to  Dick  Fuller,  whose  brother,  B.  P.  Fuller,  had  been  captain 
of  Company  A  in  the  Fifth  Texas  Regiment. 

From  the  moment  Jim  became  Dick's  property  his  comfort 
and  ease  were  assured  and  he  led  a  life  that  suited  him  down 
to  his  toes.  He  was  the  personal  pet  of  every  boy  in  town  and 
from  the  dignified  air  he  assumed  I  am  confident  he  felt  his 
importance  and  knew  how  great  a  mule  he  was.  He  had  sense 
just  like  folk  and  had  the  most  cunning  ways  about  him.  There 
was  absolutely  nothing  vicious  about  him. 

James  Longstreet,  like  many  men  who  did  no  actual  fighting 
during  the  war,  never  was  convinced  that  the  war  was  over. 
For  him  the  war  went  on  for  many  years  after  Appomattox. 
This  was  shown  in  a  decided  way.  James  continued  his  forag- 
ing expeditions  to  the  day  of  his  death.  He  would  wander 
away  and  go  clear  out  on  the  prairie,  though  he  never  crossed 
the  bayou  and  went  into  the  woods.  No  matter  how  far  away 
he  was  or  what  he  was  doing,  if  a  thunder  storm  came  up  he 
would  duck  his  head  and  break  for  home  at  the  first  thunder 
clap.  He  was  certain  that  a  fight  was  about  to  begin  and  he 
hunted  for  safety  at  the  discharge  of  what  he  thought  was  the 
opening  gun  of  the  engagement.  When  at  home  a  thunder 
storm  had  no  effect  on  him  and  he  paid  no  attention  to  the 
most  terrible  crashes,  but  away  from  home  he  was  keenly  on 
the  alert. 

James  Longstreet  died  in  1869,  full  of  years  and  honors.  He 
was  given  a  decent  burial,  as  was  befitting  his  station  in  life, 
and  the  Houston  Telegraph  published  a  column  obituary  of  him, 
reciting  his  many  virtues.  His  record  was  remarkable-  and  his 
life  he  made  an  easy  one.  He  was  the  pet  of  the  soldiers  of 
Hood's  Brigade  four  years  and  the  pet  of  the  boys  of  Houston 
during  the  remaining  years  of  his  life,  after  the  war  was  over. 
He  lived  at  peace  with  himself  and  the  whole  world  and  died 
lamented  by  all  who  knew  him. 

*  *  * 

BIG   GULLIES   IN    HOUSTON. 

ABOUT  the  first  thing  that  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central 
Railroad  had  to  do  when  that  road  was  begun,  was  to 
build   a  long  trestlework  over  an  immense   gully  that 
lay  between  the  present  Grand  Central  Depot  and  the  old  city 
graveyard.    That  gully   began   about   on   Houston   Avenue   and 
ran  parallel  with  the  track  for  a  block  or  two  and  then  turned 
to  the  northeast  and   extended  to   White   Oak   Bayou.    It  has 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  17 

since  been  almost  completely  filled,  though  traces  of  it  still 
remain. 

In  the  early  days  Houston  was  remarkable  for  its  numerous 
large  gullies.  There  was  one  great  one  that  took  up  rather 
more  than  the  lower  end  of  Caroline  Street.  It  was  narrower 
after  reaching  Congress  Avenue,  and  gradually  narrowed  until 
it  completely  disappeared  between  Prairie  and  Texas  Avenues. 
There  were  two  big  bridges  crossing  the  gully,  one  on  Franklin 
and  the  other  on  Congress  Avenue.  Those  were  the  two  prin- 
cipal streets  used  at  that  time,  very  few  people  living  south 
of  Texas  Avenue. 

But  the  king  gully  of  all  was  the  one  on  Rusk  Avenue.  This 
began  on  Smith  Street  and  before  it  had  gone  a  block  it  was 
almost  a  block  wide.  It  became  much  wider  as  it  neared  the 
bayou  and  really  got  so  broad  that  it  was  two  or  three  blocks 
wide.  Both  this  and  the  Caroline  Street  one  have  been  filled 
up  and  now  one  would  never  know  that  they  had  existed. 

One  of  the  famous  gullies  was  that  between  Texas  and  Prairie 
Avenues.  It  began  on  Milam  Street  about  in  the  middle  of  the 
block  and  ran  down  to  the  bayou.  Unlike  the  other  gullies, 
this  appeared  to  have  been  quite  ancient,  for  its  banks  were 
covered  with  vegetation  and  free  from  fresh  erosions.  Near 
where  the  gully  passed  Smith  Street  there  was  a  very  large 
spring  overhung  by  a  large  oak  tree.  I  can  close  my  eyes  now 
and  see  that  spring  and  the  little  school  of  minnows  that  were 
always  swimming  about  in  it.  I  walked  down  that  way  a  few 
days  ago  and  found  an  immense  brick  building  on  a  paved  street, 
40  feet  above  where  that  beautiful  spring  was.  I  found  not  a 
trace  of  the  gully,  it  having  been  filled  up  and  converted  into 
building  lots,  all  now  covered  with  houses. 

There  used  to  be  quite  a  large  gully  running  from  Preston 
Avenue  to  the  bayou.  My  earliest  recollection  of  this  gully  is 
of  the  spring  that  was  at  its  head,  near  the  southeast  corner 
of  Preston  and  Louisiana  Street.  As  I  recall  it  this  spring  was 
not  much  for  beauty,  though  it  was  large  enough  to  cause  a 
standing  mudhole  on  Louisiana  Street.  Going  from  Preston 
towards  the  bayou  this  gully  widened  rapidly  and  was  quite  an 
obstruction  to  travel  by  the  time  it  reached  Congress  Avenue. 
It  too  has  been  filled  and  today  not  a  trace  of  it  remains. 

Now,  of  all  the  mean  and  disagreeable  gullies  that  ever  existed 
anywhere,  the  big  one  on  Rusk  Avenue  took  the  cake.  It  was 
caving  constantly  and  its  banks  and  sides  were  sticky,  red  clay. 
When  it  rained,  this  gully  was  a  place  to  be  avoided.  At  each 
street  crossing  there  was  a  plank  near  the  bottom  of  the  gully 
to  enable  persons  who  had  to  cross  to  escape  the  water  in  the 
bottom  of  the  gully.  The  descent  was  perilous  and  ascent 


18  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

equally  so.  Everybody  that  had  any  sense  went  around  the 
head  of  the  gully,  but  there  were  lots  of  people  who  preferred 
to  risk  the  gully  to  taking  the  walk.  Of  course,  none  of  the 
boys  had  any  sense.  As  a  rule  they  were  barefooted  and  did 
not  care  much  whether  they  got  muddy  or  not.  I  remember  one 
evening  when  a  German  "pardner"  of  mine  and  I  got  caught  by 
darkness  on  the  other  side  of  that  gully.  We  had  been  out  on 
the  San  Felipe  Road,  had  stayed  too  long  and  were  making  short 
cuts  for  home.  I  can  look  back  now  and  see  that  we  did  not 
gain  much  by  our  short  cuts,  but  then  we  thought  we  did  and 
that  counted  at  the  time. 

Finally  we  came  to  this  big  gully.  I  wanted  to  go  around 
its  head,  but  my  friend  would  not  listen  to  doing  so.  He 
announced  that  he  was  a  goat  when  it  came  to  going  down  a 
muddy  gully  and  told  me  to  watch  him  and  then  I  would  see 
how  easy  it  was  to  do.  I  watched  all  right  and  he  found  it 
much  easier  to  go  down  than  he  had  anticipated.  About  the 
third  step  he  took,  his  heels  flew  up  and  he  started  down  with 
a  rush.  Just  before  he  reached  the  narrow  plank  near  the  bot- 
tom, he  succeeded  in  stopping  himself,  but  the  halt  was  only 
for  a  moment,  for  the  next  thing  he  did  was  to  go  head  foremost 
into  the  mud  and  water  at  the  bottom.  I  could  not  see  him  very 
distinctly  because  of  the  darkness,  but  you  bet  I  could  hear  him, 
and  he  was  not  making  a  Sunday  school  address,  either.  Now 
the  funny  part  of  the  whole  thing  was  that  having  been  whirled 
and  twisted  about  so  much,  he  lost  his  bearings  and  when  he 
started  to  crawl  out  of  the  gully,  he  crawled  out  on  the  same 
side  that  he  went  in.  He  would  dig  his  hands  and  feet  in  the 
slippery  clay  and  yell  for  me  to  come  on,  saying  that  if  I  did 
not  hurry  up  he  was  going  to  leave  me.  He  was  angry,  anyway, 
but  when  he  finally  reached  the  top  and  saw  me  standing  there 
and  realized  what  he  had  done,  he  nearly  had  a  fit.  I  wanted 
to  get  home  and  had  no  time  for  a  fight,  so  I  refrained  from 
saying  anything  to  him  about  being  a  goat.  I  knew  it  would 
make  him  supremely  happy  if  I  gave  him  the  least  excuse  for 
starting  a  war.  Finally  I  started  off  to  head  the  gulley  and  he 
followed,  bringing  along  with  him  a  surprisingly  large  quantity 
of  clay  and  mud,  for  which  he  had  no  use  on  earth. 

I  don't  know  that  there  is  a  single  gully  left  in  the  city  limits, 
and  there  should  be  none,  for  of  all  the  useless  things  on  earth 
they  are  the  chief.  +  +  + 

A  SURE  THING. 

ALL   the   old   Houstonians   remember   Frank   LeMott.     He 
was  born  in  New  York,  but  he  claims  to  be  from  the 
old  Huguenot  family  of  that  name,  who  originally  set- 
tled in  South  Carolina.    Frank  is  very  proud  of  the  blue  blood 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  19 

in  his  veins,  and  claims  that  he  is  the  only  black  sheep  in 
the  family.  He  also  claims  that  he  was  a  black  sheep  for  a 
time  only,  and  he  is  perfectly  correct  in  saying  that,  as  for  many 
years  past  he  has  been  as  staid  and  circumspect  as  any  Presby- 
terian deacon  could  be. 

When  Colonel  Abe  Gentry  was  building  the  Texas  and  New 
Orleans  Railroad,  he  went  to  New  York  and  met  Frank,  then 
a  mere  boy.  He  liked  him  so  well  that  he  induced  him  to  come 
to  Houston  with  him,  took  him  to  his  home  and  made  him  one 
of  his  family.  It  was  not  long  after  his  arrival  here  when  the 
war  broke  out.  Frank  took  the  side  of  the  South  and  when 
Captain  Ike  Stafford  raised  his  cavalry  company  to  go  down 
on  the  Rio  Grande,  the  first  company  raised  in  Houston,  Frank 
joined  it.  He  served  four  years  in  the  Confederate  army,  and 
was  with  Baylor,  Ford  and  all  of  the  others  in  West  Texas, 
New  Mexico  and  Arizona. 

When  the  war  closed  Frank  found  himself  without  home  or 
employment  and,  what  was  worse,  he  had  formed  tastes  that 
made  him  a  wanderer  and  largely  an  adventurer.  His  career 
as  a  soldier  had  been  just  at  that  formative  stage  in  his  life 
when  it  stamped  itself  on  his  character  and  he  could  not  stand 
the  humdrum  routine  of  everyday  civil  life. 

He  wanted  excitement,  and  since  he  could  not  get  that  in  war 
he  took  the  next  best  thing  and  became  a  gambler.  I  would 
not  refer  to  this  at  all  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that  he  reformed 
many  years  ago  and  is  now  and  has  been  for  half  a  generation 
one  of  the  most  reputable  and  highly  esteemed  citizens  of  Gal- 
veston. 

He  is  a  superb  raconteur,  has  had  a  wonderful  experience, 
and  it  is  a  great  treat  to  hear  him  relate  some  of  his  adven- 
tures. His  stories  are  all  good,  but  one  ,is  inclined  to  think  the 
last  one  he  tells  is  the  best  of  all.  When  he  gets  deeply  inter- 
ested in  what  he  is  telling  he  is  apt  to  lapse  into  the  gambler's 
habit  of  speaking  of  everything  in  the  present  tense.  Here  is 
one  of  his  best  stories.  He  and  I  were  talking  about  "sure 
things"  one  day. 

"Don't  you  fool  yourself,"  said  he;  "there  are  no  such  things 
as  'sure  things.'  I  know,  because  I  have  had  experience  with 
them.  Why,  once  I  had  such  a  'sure  thing'  it  was  too  dead  to 
skin.  The  funny  part  about  it  is  that  it  worked  perfectly,  too, 
but  I  don't  press  my  luck  working  it  but  that  one  time. 

"I'm  over  in  Gonzales,  where  there  is  a  big  horse  race  meet- 
ing going  on.  There  are  lots  of  cowmen  there,  and  they  all  have 
big  money  and  they  bet  it  free,  too.  The  first  night  I  got  there 
I  went  against  faro  bank  and  dropped  my  roll.  That  didn't 
bother  me  much,  because  I  knew  I  could  get  a  stake  from  some 


20  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

of  the  boys  next  day.  I  went  to  my  room  and  got  to  thinking 
about  the  races.  Everybody  was  betting  so  free  and  easy  that 
I  saw  a  good  killing  could  be  made  if  I  could  hatch  up  a  scheme. 
Before  long  a  plan  suggested  itself  to  me.  The  Devil  helped  me, 
and  before  I  went  to  bed  I  had  one  of  the  'surest-sure  things' 
that  any  sport  ever  got  his  claws  onto. 

"The  next  morning  I  tapped  one  of  the  boys  for  a  stake.  He 
was  not  very  strong,  having  only  .$80,  but  he  split  that  with  me. 
It  was  not  much,  but  I  was  satisfied,  for  my  'sure  thing'  was  so 
good  that  all  I  wanted  was  to  get  my  first  bet  down  and  it  would 
work  itself  after  that. 

"I  got  out  to  the  race  track  early  so  as  to  size  up  the  crowd. 
There  was  a  big  bunch  of  redhot  sports  there  and  they  were 
all  howling  to  get  their  money  down  on  a  big  horse  that  was  a 
favorite   at  2   to   1.    I  didn't  make   any  bets,   but  just  walked 
around  looking  for  the  right  man  to  help  me  out.     Finally  I 
found  him.    He  was  a  long,  lanky  fellow  and  had  only  one  arm. 
I  took  him  off  on  one  side  and  interrogated  him. 
"Sawmill  or  gin?"  said  I,  pointing  to  his  absent  arm. 
"  'Army,'  says  he. 
"Infantry  or  cavalry?"  says  I. 
"  'Infantry,'  says  he. 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  able  to  walk  like  hell,"  said  I. 
"  'I  can,'  said  he. 

"I  saw  he  was  a  man  of  few  words  and  determined  to  trust 
him.  Then  I  unfolded  my  plan  to  him.  It  was  simple.  I  would 
make  a  bet  and  he  would  hold  stakes.  He  would  slip  the  money 
back  to  me  and  I  would  bet  it  all  again.  When  the  horses  got 
started  good  he  was  to  slip  over  the  hill  and  meet  me  next  day 
in  Seguin  and  we  would  divide  up. 

"He  agreed  and  I  went  out  to  slaughter  'em.  I  saw  a  sport 
waving  a  big  bunch  of  bills  he  wanted  to  get  down  on  the  4- 
year-old  that  was  the  favorite  at  2  to  1.  I  took  him  promptly, 
he  putting  up  $80  against  my  $40.  I  remarked  that  I  was  a 
stranger  and  looked  around  for  somebody  to  hold  the  stakes. 
'Here's  the  right  man,'  I  said;  'he  hasn't  got  but  one  arm  and  we 
can  know  him  easy.'  The  sport  agrees  and  the  one-armed  man 
gets  the  money  and  then  slips  it  back  to  me  and  I  puts  the  $120 
against  $250  another  sport  is  howling  to  get  rid  of,  and  my  one- 
armed  man  holds  stakes  again. 

"I  don't  know  how  many  times  I  bet  that  roll.  Finally  the 
sports  conclude  from  my  betting  so  freely  that  I  know  something 
against  the  4-year-old  and  I  can't  get  any  more  bets.  Then  I 
force  things  and  give  odds  against  him — anything  to  get  action 
on  my  money.  Before  the  race  started  I  had  the  whole  bunch 
bet  to  a  standstill.  Finally  the  race  started.  Everybody  is 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  21 

watching  the  horses  except  me.  I'm  watching  my  one-armed 
man,  and  I  don't  breathe  easy  until  I  see  his  head  disappear 
over  the  hill.  Of  course  I'm  prepared  to  help  the  gang  raise 
hell  over  the  stakeholder  getting  away  with  the  money,  but 
there  ain't  any  hell  raised.  A  little  flea-bitten  gray  mare,  ridden 
by  a  nigger,  comes  under  the  wire  a  length  ahead  of  the  4- 
year-old. 

"I'm  crazy.  I've  bankrupted  West  Texas,  and  I  break  over  the 
hill  after  my  one-armed  man.  But  I  don't  find  him,  for  he  sure 
tells  the  truth  when  he  says  he  can  walk  like  hell.  I  search 
the  county  for  him  that  evening,  but  I  don't  find  him.  The  next 
day  I  go  over  to  Seguin,  but  he  ain't  there.  I  wait  there  two 
days,  but  he  never  did  show  up,  and  he  must  be  going  yet,  for 
I  have  never  seen  him  since  his  head  went  over  the  hill. 

"That's  the  surest  thing  I  ever  had,  and  you  see  a  plumb 
outsider  got  away  with  all  its  fruit. 

"There  are  two  things,"  said  Frank  in  concluding  his  story, 
"that  have  worried  me  ever  since.  One  is  trying  to  figure  how 
much  money  I  beat  those  sports  out  of,  and  the  other  is  how 
anybody  could  have  acted  as  dishonest  as  that  one-armed  man 
did." 

*  *  * 

A  COMPANY  OF  GAMBLERS. 

EVERYBODY  knows  how  scarce  Confederate  soldiers  were 
in  the  South  toward  the  latter  part  of  1863.  As  some 
wit  expressed  it,  Jefferson  Davis  had  robbed  the  cradle 
and  the  grave  and  was  almost  tempted  to  call  out  the  cavalry. 
It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  wit  belonged  to  some  other  branch 
of  service  than  cavalry.  Texas  was  the  only  Southern  state 
on  whose  soil  the  federal  troops  had  not  succeeded  in  making  a 
permanent  foothold.  The  naval  and  military  forces  had  been 
driven  off  by  Magruder  at  Galveston;  the  invading  force  of 
Banks  had  been  defeated  at  Sabine  Pass  by  Dick  Dowling,  and 
Banks'  Red  River  campaign  had  resulted  only  in  making  large, 
though  involuntary,  contribution  of  food,  clothing  and  ammuni- 
tion to  the  Confederates  who  opposed  him. 

An<J  yet  with  all  this  pressing  need  for  men  at  the  front  there 
were  hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  able-bodied  men  in  Houston, 
the  headquarters  of  General  Magruder,  who  commanded  the 
Trans-Mississippi  department.  There  were  blockade  runners, 
cotton  exporters  and  hundreds  of  others  who,  on  one  pretext  or 
another,  secured  immunity  from  military  service.  Then,  too, 
there  were  scores  of  gamblers.  Haw  these  latter  escaped  the 
conscript  officers  no  one  knew,  but  they  did  and  they  lived  on 
the  fat  of  the  land,  too. 


22  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

At  that  time  there  was  an  old  gentleman,  a  distinguished 
criminal  lawyer,  living  in  Houston.  He  was  eager  to  go  to  the 
front  and  had  almost  evaded  his  friends  and  succeeded  in  doing 
so  on  one  or  two  occasions.  Of  course,  being  a  criminal  lawyer, 
who  almost  invariably  won  his  cases,  he  was  vastly  popular 
with  the  gambling  fraternity  and  it  was  principally  they  who 
raised  such  a  strenuous  objection  to  his  risking  his  valuable 
life  on  the  field  of  battle. 

One  night  the  judge  had  an  inspiration.  He  thought  of  a  plan 
by  which  he  could  not  only  get  to  the  front  himself,  but  could 
take  all  his  troublesome  friends  with  him.  He  would  organize 
an  independent  cavalry  company;  make  every  man  furnish  his 
own  equipment  and  would  thus  be  in  position  to  choose  his  own 
men.  He  knew  that  no  others  than  the  gamblers  could  stand 
the  expense,  so  he  determined  to  get  his  recruits  from  among 
them  only. 

The  next  morning  he  called  at  General  Magruder's  headquar- 
ters; outlined  his  scheme  and,  of  course,  readily  received  the 
authority  to  carry  out  his  plan.  The  judge  knew  how  futile 
it  would  be  to  appeal  to  the  gamblers  on  grounds  of  patriotism, 
and  he  did  not  try  to  do  so.  He  sent  for  two  or  three  of  the 
leaders  and  told  them  that  he  had  just  left  Magruder's  head- 
quarters and  that  an  order  would  be  issued  in  a  day  or  two 
revoking  all  exemptions  from  military  service  and  all  special 
privileges.  He  pointed  out  to  them  that  since  they  would  have 
to  go  in  the  army  anyway,  they  might  as  well  go  of  their  own 
accord  and  thus  be  able  to  choose  the  branch  of  service  they 
would  prefer  to  belong  to.  He  then  told  them  that  he  had 
secured  from  Magruder  authority  to  raise  an  independent  cav- 
alry company;  that  he,  the  judge,  would  be  captain,  but  that  the 
men  could  elect  all  the  other  officers  and  that  Magruder  had 
promised  to  confirm  them. 

The  plan  was  instantly  endorsed  and  before  night  about  80 
men  were  enrolled,  officers  were  elected  and  the  work  of  secur- 
ing equipments  was  begun. 

The  only  delay  was  occasioned  by  their  inability  to  secure 
things  fine  enough.  The  best  and  showiest  horses  and  bridles 
and  silver  and  gold  mounted  six-shooters  were  secured  and 
within  a  week  everything  was  in  readiness. 

As  already  stated,  there  were  no  Federals  in  Texas  at  that 
time.  So  after  this  fine  company  was  organized  it  had  every- 
thing requisite  for  a  brilliant  victory  except  the  enemy  to  win 
it  from.  In  this  dilemma  they  took  Horace  Greeley's  advice  and 
went  West.  Their  first  halt  was  at  Velasco,  where  they  saw 
two  or  three  Federal  gunboats  lying  off  the  mouth  of  the  river 
hoping  to  pick  up  blockade  runners.  There  was  nothing  to  be 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 23 

done  there,  so  they  moved  on  and  finally  reached  Matagorda  Bay. 
Here  they  halted  to  rest  for  awhile  and  it  was  here  that  they 
had  the  time  of  their  lives. 

Their  camp  was  about  four  miles  from  the  gulf  in  a  liveoak 
grove  and  they  rode  out  every  day  over  the  prairie  and  down 
to  the  water  front.  A  favorite  excursion  was  far  out  on  a  penin- 
sula that  extended  obliquely  into  the  gulf.  Occasionally  a  Fed- 
eral gunboat  would  pass,  always  too  far  out  to  notice  them,  but 
it  made  them  feel  better  to  know  that  there  were  enemies  about 
even  if  they  were  so  far  away. 

One  day  the  company  concluded  to  have  a  big  oyster  roast  out 
on  the  peninsula.  So  early  in  the  morning  they  rode  out  to 
its  end,  where  the  grass  was  most  plentiful,  hobbled  their  horses, 
returned  to  the  oyster  bed  and  began  operations.  The  oysters 
were  on  the  bayside,  so  their  backs  were  to  the  gulf  and  the 
view  in  that  direction  was  further  obstructed  by  high  grass  and 
shell  banks.  Some  of  them  waded  in  the  water  and  threw  out 
the  oysters,  while  others  built  fires  or  dug  trenches  in  which 
to  roast  them.  It  was  a  hot  and  sultry  day,  and  as  they  took 
their  time,  it  was  fully  10  o'clock  before  the  feast  was  ready. 
A  few  black  clouds  had  piled  up  in  the  west  and  thunder  was 
to  be  expected,  but  the  clap  that  came  fairly  drove  every  thought 
of  oysters  from  their  minds  and  nearly  paralyzed  them.  It 
struck  about  half  way  between  them  and  the  main  land,  and 
pieces  of  it  bounded  off  and  went  kicking  up  the  water  of  the 
bay  every  three  or  four  hundred  yards  for  over  a  mile.  They 
sprang  up  the  bank  as  one  man,  and  saw  to  their  horror  a 
Federal  gunboat  about  a  mile  off  shore  and  realized  that  they 
were  about  to  receive  their  baptism  of  fire.  Their  first  thought 
was  to  make  for  their  horses,  but  a  glance  in  that  direction  told 
them  that  the  attempt  was  useless,  for  there  before  their  eyes 
was  a  boatful  of  bluecoats  nearing  shore  rapidly.  Their  plight 
was  pitiful,  for  as  every  old  soldier  knows,  bombshells  frighten 
an  infantryman,  the  rattle  of  minie  balls  among  the  spokes  of 
his  guns  scares  an  artilleryman,  while  if  you  get  a  cavalryman 
away  from  his  horse  any  and  everything  scares  him. 

To  say  that  they  hesitated  would  be  a  gross  exaggeration. 
There  was  no  hesitation.  They  faced  the  main  land  and  fled, 
their  valorous  captain  fulfilling  the  promise  he  had  made  at  their 
organization  by  working  far  in  the  lead.  The  Federals  behind 
them  had  now  landed,  and  being  within  long  range,  opened  fire 
with  their  muskets,  while  the  gunboat  sent  a  six  or  twelve-pound 
shell  over  their  heads  every  few  minutes.  Their  pace  was 
fearful  from  the  first,  but  it  was  sloth  itself  compared  to  the 
move  they  got  on  themselves  when  they  discovered  another  boat 
loaded  with  marines  trying  to  head  them  off.  The  peninsula 


24  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

was  joined  to  the  main  land  by  a  narrow  neck  of  land  with  rather 
deep  water  on  each  side,  so  it  was  simply  a  question  of  beating 
the  boat  there  or  throwing  up  the  sponge.  However,  in  the 
language  of  Mark  Twain's  cowboy  they  "seen  their  duty  and 
they  done  it."  They  beat  the  boat  to  the  point  by  a  neck  and 
passed  it  gloriously,  their  pace  being  accelerated  at  the  critical 
moment  by  the  explosion  of  a  big  shell  over  their  heads  and  a 
brisk  fire  from  the  marines  in  the  boat,  who  now,  realizing  that 
they  had  lost,  concluded  to  get  an  extra  spurt  or  two  from  the 
land  side  of  the  race. 

The  main  land  was  reached,  but  there  was  that  broad  prairie, 
and  for  at  least  two  miles  the  noble  band  would  be  within 
reach  of  the  guns  of  the  gunboat.  Shells  began  falling  in  front, 
behind  and  all  around  them.  There  was  no  abatement  of  the 
pace.  It  was  a  mad,  headlong  plunge  forward,  a  mad  desire  to 
get  anywhere,  anywhere  out  of  reach  of  the  shells.  Finally  the 
shells  ceased  to  fall,  but  the  mad  rush  continued  until  an  old 
deserted  house  on  the  prairie  was  reached.  Here  the  gallant 
men  fell  in  a  heap  and  attempted  to  catch  their  breaths  and  to 
still  their  throbbing  hearts. 

After  awhile,  one  by  one,  they  succeeded  in  crawling  into  the 
deserted  house  and  lay  there  panting,  bathed  in  perspiration, 
but  silently  congratulating  themselves  on  their  escape.  The  cap- 
tain, a  very  large  and  fleshy  man,  was  three-fourths  dead,  but 
after  an  hour  or  two  regained  sufficient  energy  to  sit  up  and  then 
announced  that  he  would  go  upstairs  and  see  if  the  gunboat  had 
gone.  The  others  sat  or  lay  around  too  utterly  played  out  to 
take  the  slightest  interest  in  the  matter  or  care  whether  it  had 
gone  or  not  so  long  as  they  were  out  of  range. 

A  few  moments  after  the  captain  had  gone  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous crash  as  if  the  side  of  the  house  had  been  crushed  in 
by  a  shell.  Th'ere  was  but  one  thought — the  gunboat  had  re- 
turned, had  got  the  range  of  the  house  and  had  plugged  it  the 
first  time.  That  thought  cost  the  old  house  its  front  door  for 
there  was  not  room  for  the  whole  crowd  to  get  out  at  once  as 
they  tried  to  do.  Part  of  the  old  fence  was  swept  away,  too,  as 
they,  swerving  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  made  a  bee- 
line  for  their  camp  in  the  live  oak  grove  in  the  distance.  It  was 
another  mad  rush  with  the  devil  take  the  hindmost  for  several 
hundred  yards,  when,  hearing  no  more  shells,  one  of  the  boldest 
slackened  his  pace  and  then  others,  emboldened  by  his  example, 
slowed  down  until  they  all  came  to  a  dog  trot.  Now,  for  the 
first  time  they  thought  of  their  captain  and  noticed  his  absence. 
A  council  of  war  was  held,  which  resulted  in  a  determination 
to  return  and  bear  away  his  mangled  remains,  for  there  was  no 
doubt  among  them  that  the  shell  had  found  a  shining  mark  in 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  25 

his  manly  form.  Slowly  they  wended  their  way  back  and  when 
within  long  earshot  they  were  startled  by  an  unearthly  rapping 
and  kicking,  mingled  with  smothered  oaths  and  maledictions. 
There  could  be  no  mistake  about  that  voice.  It  was  that  of  their 
captain  and  he  was  very  much  alive  and  evidently  very  much 
enraged.  They  hurried  round  the  house  and  found  to  their 
amazement  that  the  sounds  came  from  the  inside  of  an  immense 
wooden  cistern.  Yes,  their  captain  was  safe  and  not  a  mangled 
corpse  as  they  feared.  He  was  very  much  alive  though  a  pris- 
oner. They  fished  him  out  after  a  great  deal  of  trouble  and  then 
learned  the  truth.  He  had  gone  to  the  second  story  to  get  a 
good  view  of  the  gulf  and  had  incautiously  crawled  out  on  what 
he  thought  was  a  shed  but  which  proved  to  be  the  top  of  a  cis- 
tern. This  being  old  and  decayed  had  given  way  with  the  great 
crash  that  had  stampeded  the  company,  and  he  had  been  preci- 
pitated to  the  bottom.  Fortunately  there  was  no  water  in  the 
cistern  so  the  consequences  were  by  no  means  disastrous. 

About  ten  days  later  a  train  of  dilapidated  cars,  drawn  by  a 
squawking  engine,  drew  into  Houston  from  Brazoria.  After  all 
the  passengers  had  gone,  the  captain  of  the  great  independent 
company  of  Texas  rangers  and  two  or  three  comrades  slipped 
off  the  step  of  the  last  coach  and  sneaked  down  a  side  street. 
The  next  evening  other  members  of  the  company  did  the  same 
thing  and  within  a  week  they  were  all  back  and  following  their 
usual  vocations  just  as  though  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  had 
ever  happened. 

How  the  judge  ever  explained  Magruder's  not  issuing  that 
order,  the  fear  of  which  had  caused  the  gamblers  to  fall  such 
easy  victims,  was  never  known.  The  fact  that  every  member 
of  the  company  was  strictly  on  the  defensive  no  doubt  helped 
him  out  of  the  difficulty. 

*  *  * 

AN    ENCOUNTER    WITH    A    CAMEL. 

MONDAY  when  the  circus  was  here  I  saw  an  old 
horse  hitched  to  a  buggy  making  a  fool  of  himself 
because  there  were  two  or  three  elephants  march- 
ing up  Main  Street.  Now  if  it  had  been  camels  instead 
of  elephants  there  might  have  been  some  excuse  for  that 
old  horse,  for,  as  everybody  knows,  horses  dread  camels 
as  the  devil  dreads  holy  water.  An  explanation  of  this  fact 
is  given  in  an  old  story  to  the  effect  that  when  God  made  animals 
He  made  a  horse  among  the  last.  He  told  the  horse  that  he 
should  be  man's  servant  and  be  a  beast  of  burden.  At  that  the 
horse  thought  he  would  make  some  suggestions  and  said  that  if 


26  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

man  were  going  to  ride  on  his  back  he  should  have  a  natural 
saddle.  God  knew  what  he  was  doing  and,  just  to  show  the  horse 
the  absurdity  of  his  suggestion,  He  made  a  camel  and  placed  it 
in  front  of  the  horse.  The  horse  took  one  look  at  the  horrible 
figure  and  then  took  to  his  heels.  Since  that  day,  the  story  con- 
cludes, the  horse  has  never  been  able  to  come  near  a  camel  with- 
out having  the  most  abject  terror  and  fear. 

Now,  I  don't  know  whether  there  is  a  word  of  truth  in  that 
whole  story,  except  the  concluding  part,  but  I  know  that  you 
can't  get  any  horse  to  associate  with  a  camel  under  any  circum- 
stances. I  once  had  a  very  vivid  demonstration  of  the  truth 
of  that.  In  1871  Dr.  Charley  Owens  and  I  went  down  to  Galves- 
ton  on  a  pleasure  trip.  There  were  no  street  cars  then,  as  now, 
by  which  to  reach  the  beach,  so  we  went  round  to  Gregory's 
stable  and  hired  a  horse  and  buggy.  The  buggy  was  a  brand 
new  one,  but  the  horse  was  evidently  second,  or  even  third 
hand. 

We  drove  out  Tremont  Street  to  the  beach  and  by  the  time 
we  got  there  we  were  pretty  well  worn  out  beating  on  that  horse. 
We  could  not  get  him  to  go  faster  than  a  slow  trot.  Charley 
was  for  turning  back  and  making  the  man  give  us  another 
horse,  but  I  talked  him  out  of  it,  telling  him  that  on  the  beach 
the  drive  would  be  better  and  probably  we  would  get  more 
speed  out  of  the  horse.  My  prediction  proved  to  be  true,  for 
after  we  got  on  the  hard  sand  of  the  beach  the  old  chap  showed 
marked  improvement. 

After  a  short  drive  we  returned  and  went  to  Schmidt's  Gar- 
den for  some  refreshments.  As  soon  as  we  got  out  of  the 
buggy  the  old  horse  fell  fast  asleep,  so  Charley  said  there  was 
no  use  to  tie  him,  and  there  was  not,  for  he  slept  profoundly 
during  the  whole  time  we  were  in  the  garden.  We  came  out 
finally  and,  without  awakening  the  horse;  Charley  and  I  got  in 
the  buggy,  intending  to  play  a  joke  on  him  and  wake  him  up 
with  the  whip  after  we  got  well  settled.  But  our  joke  was 
spoiled,  for  just  as  Charley  gathered  up  the  reins  and  I 
gathered  up  the  whip  a  lot  of  boys  came  up  behind 
us,  making  such  a  noise  that  they  actually  awoke  that  old 
plug,  and  he  turned  his  head  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  We  did  the  same  thing,  and  saw  waddling  toward 
us  one  of  the  largest  and  ugliest  camels  on  earth.  He  was 
right  up  on  us  before  we  knew  it.  The  effect  on  that  horse 
was  magical.  I  have  thought  over  what  he  did  a  thousand 
times,  but  I  am  no  nearer  being  able  to  explain  it  than  I  was 
then.  I  don't  know  how  he  did  it,  but  he  raised  his  left  hind 
leg  slowly  and  carefully  and  poked  his  foot  right  in  our  faces 
without  touching  the  dashboard.  It  was  an  uncanny  thing  to 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  27 

do,  for  he  kept  his  other  three  feet  on  the  ground.  He  kept 
that  left  foot  right  under  our  noses  for  the  fraction  of  a  second, 
and  then  he  took  it  down.  When  he  did  so  he  took  the  dash- 
board and  nearly  all  the  front  part  of  the  buggy  with  it.  There 
was  nothing  dignified  or  deliberate  about  the  way  he  got  him- 
self together.  There  was  a  high  board  fence  across  the  street 
that  some  billposter  had  erected  to  paste  bills  on.  There  was 
lots  of  room  on  both  sides  of  that  billboard,  for  it  was  all 
vacant  land  out  there  then.  But  that  old  horse  must  have  got- 
ten a  whiff  of  the  camel's  odor,  which  drove  all  the  little  sense 
he  had  left  clean  out  of  him,  for  he  actually  made  three  at- 
tempts to  climb  over  that  fence. 

After  the  third  attempt,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  see- 
ing the  camel  between  him  and  town,  he  turned  and  headed 
for  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  at  a  frightful  speed.  I  heard  an  awful 
flapping,  but  could  not  see  anything  because  the  horse  raised 
such  a  dense  cloud  of  dust  that  we  could  scarcely  breathe. 
When  we  struck  the  hard  beach  I  discovered  that  he  had  gotten 
his  foot  through  the  remnants  of  the  dashboard  and  that  it  fitted 
his  leg  like  a  bracelet.  While  the  horse  was  trying  to  climb 
the  billboard,  I  got  a  glimpse  at  the  camel,  and  as  scared  as  I 
was  I  could  not  help  wondering  at  the  little  interest  he  took  in 
the  performance  of  our  horse.  He  did  not  smile  nor  show  the 
slightest  interest  in  the  performance  of  our  plug,  though  he 
himself  was  causing  all  the  trouble. 

By  the  most  strenuous  effort  Charley  succeeded  in  turning 
the  horse  just  as  he  reached  the  water's  edge  and  headed  him 
down  the  beach  toward  Tremont  Street.  It  was  Charley's  inten- 
tion to  turn  him  into  Tremont  Street,  where  the  sand  was  very 
deep,  and  thus  stop  his  mad  career.  There  was  a  big  sand  fort 
that  had  been  erected  at  the  foot  of  Tremont  Street  during  the 
war  and  this  shut  off  our  view  in  that  direction,  so  we  did  not 
see  what  was  coming.  Just  as  Charley  began  to  work  the  old 
horse  round  so  as  to  head  him  into  Tremont  Street,  right  there 
in  front  of  us  and  not  50  yards  away,  two  big  elephants  and 
three  more  camels  came  waddling  out  from  behind  the  fort 
and  headed  right  for  us. 

Charley  and  I  abandoned  hope  at  once,  but  our  horse  did  bet- 
ter than  that,  for  he  abandoned  everything.  He  squatted  down 
on  the  ground,  coming  to  a  sudden  halt,  and  actually  groaned 
with  terror.  When  he  did  that  the  buggy  rolled  up  on  him. 
That  must  have  been  just  what  he  wanted,  for  the  next  moment 
he  shot  all  four  feet  back  at  us  and  smashed  everything  free 
from  himself.  Then  he  turned  and  if  the  Old  Boy  and  all  his 
fiends  had  been  behind  him  he  could  not  have  gotten  away  more 


28  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

quickly.  He  was  there  one  moment  and  out  of  sight  down  the 
beach  the  next. 

Charley  and  I  had  a  long  walk  back  to  town.  We  threatened 
to  sue  the  stableman  for  damages  and  he  threatened  to  sue  us, 
but  finally  concluded  he  had  a  better  case  against  the  circus 
people,  who  had  just  come  to  town.  He  finally  fixed  it  up  with 
them  and  aside  from  our  long  walk  Charley  and  I  experienced  no 
further  inconvenience  from  our  contact  with  a  mixture  of  Texas- 
raised  horse  and  camels  and  elephants. 

Being  of  an  inquisitive  mind  and  ever  on  the  lookout  for 
explanations  of  common  things,  I  learned  something  that  day.  I 
had  heard  all  my  life  about  the  fleetness  and  running  qualities 
of  the  Arabian  steed.  I  found  the  solution  of  the  problem  that 
day.  They  have  camels  in  Arabia  and  the  horses  over  there  are 
so  in  the  habit  of  running  away  from  them  and  have  been  doing 
so  for  so  many  generations  that  it  has  grown  to  be  part  of  their 
natures.  If  we  had  a  few  camels  to  stir  our  horses  up  for  a 
generation  or  two,  judging  by  the  speed  our  old  plug  developed 
that  day,  our  mustangs  would  have  the  Arabian  steeds  looking 
like  30  cents  before  long. 


A    DOUBLE-ACTION    GHOST. 

THE  other  night  at  the  Press  Club  one  of  the  members  t61d 
about  being  nearly  scared  to  death  one  night  while  pass- 
ing a  graveyard  by  an  old  white  horse.  The  horse  was 
simply  grazing  about  among  the  tombstones,  but  he  was  white, 
was  moving,  and  was  in  the  graveyard.  That  combination  could 
not  be  resisted  and  the  story-teller  left  precipitately. 

The  story  reminded  me  of  an  incident  that  happened  a  long 
time  ago  and  of  which  I  had  not  thought  for  years.  A  big  crowd 
of  us  went  fishing  over  on  White  Oak  Bayou.  The  fish  began 
biting  late  in  the  afternoon  and  it  was  nearly  dark  before  we 
thought  of  leaving  for  home.  May  Stanley  and  I  left  before  the 
others  and  hurried,  too,  because  we  did  not  care  to  pass  the  old 
city  graveyard  after  dark. 

When  we  got  to  the  graveyard  May  suggested  that  we  stop 
and  play  a  trick  on  the  other  boys.  I  did  not  want  to  linger  in 
that  locality  a  single  moment,  but  he  persuaded  me  to  stay  and 
see  the  fun.  There  was  an  old  brick,  one-story  house  used  as 
the  city  powder  house,  located  near  the  far  end  of  the  grave- 
yard, near  the  bank  of  the  bayou. 

The  boys  would  have  to  come  close  past  this  place,  so  May 
set  his  trap  there.  He  took  off  his  white  shirt  and  rigged  it 
up  on  a  stick  so  that  when  he  stood  up  it  looked  like  a  man 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  29 

six  or  seven  feet  high.  He  took  his  stand  or  rather  his  squat 
behind  the  house  and  we  waited  for  the  boys  to  come.  Soon  we 
heard  voices  and  thought  the  boys  were  coming. 

I  had  become  interested  in  the  game  by  now  and  moved  off 
down  the  fence  so  as  to  give  the  crowd  a  second  shock  as  they 
passed  me.  Just  as  the  voices  drew  near,  I  chanced  to  glance 
over  in  the  graveyard  and  my  blood  grew  cold,  for  there  rapidly 
advancing  right  down  on  May  was  a  great  big  white  thing. 

"Look  behind  you,  May!"  I  yelled,  and  May  looked.  When 
he  saw  what  was  coming  he  let  out  a  yell  one  could  hear  for 
a  mile,  and  tore  out  from  behind  the  house  with  his  white  scare- 
crow held  aloft.  He  emerged  at  just  what  the  scientists  call  the 
psychological  moment,  for  his  charge  was  made  just  in  time  to 
bring  him  face  to  face  with,  not  the  boys,  but  two  negroes  who 
were  on  their  way  to  town. 

The  negroes  were  too  scared  to  yell.  They  gave  sharp  grunts 
like  two  frightened  hogs  and  the  next  moment  dashed  down 
the  hill  and  fairly  split  the  bayou  wide  open  in  their  haste  to 
get  across.  May  was  too  badly  scared  to  realize  what  he  was 
doing  or  what  was  happening.  He  knew  that  something  terrible 
was  behind  him  and  coming  face  to  face  with  two  negro  men 
instead  of  the  boys  he  expected  added  to  his  confusion. 

He  did  not  realize  that  he  himself  had  scared  the  negroes, 
but  thought  that  they,  too,  had  seen  the  ghost  and  were  leaving 
for  anywhere  to  get  away  from  there.  He  dropped  his  shirt 
and  tore  off  through  the  woods  in  the  direction  of  where  Schnei- 
der's swimming  hole  was  afterwards  located. 

I  was  too  scared  to  run  or  to  do  anything  but  stand  and  gasp. 
However,  I  soon  found  out  that  the  ghost  was  only  a  big  white 
dog,  presumably  on  his  way  home  and  taking  the  nearest  way 
through  the  graveyard.  I  yelled  to  May  and  tried  to  stop  him, 
but  he  was  too  frightened  to  hear  me  and  kept  going. 

Not  caring  to  stay  near  the  graveyard  alone  and  hating  to  pass 
it  by  myself  as  I  would  have  to  do,  I  took  after  May.  I  did  not 
catch  up  with  him  until  we  reached  a  point  near  where  the 
Grand  Central  depot  is  now  located.  He  was  completely  out 
of  breath  and  was  panting  like  a  dog. 

I  did  not  want  to  do  so,  but  I  offered  to  go  back  with  him  to 
get  his  shirt,  but  he  swore  that  he  would  not  go  back  there  again 
for  a  thousand  shirts.  The  other  boys  had  heard  the  yells  and 
when  they  came  to  the  scene  of  the  disaster  they  found  May's 
shirt  and  brought  it  along  to  him. 

May  swore  that  he  would  not  have  become  so  demoralized 
if  he  had  not  have  been  thinking  of  a  fellow  who  had  committed 
suicide  a  week  or  two  before  right  back  of  the  powder  house. 
May  said  that  he  was  thinking  what  he  would  do  if  that  suicide 


30  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

should  appear  suddenly  when  I  called  out  to  him  to  look  behind 
him  and  he  naturally  concluded  that  the  fellow  had  come  sure 
enough. 

What  the  negroes  thought  or  said  we  never  knew,  for  we  never 
heard  of  them  again.  I'll  bet  that  to  their  dying  day  they 
thought  and  swore  that  they  had  come  face  to  face  with  that 
man  who  had  killed  himself  near  the  old  powder  house. 

All  that  part  of  town  is  thickly  settled  now  and  the  old  grave- 
yard is  almost  obliterated  and  totally  neglected.  At  the  time 
I  speak  of,  the  graveyard  was  away  out  of  town  and  there  was 
a  dense  forest  of  pine  and  oak  trees  surrounding  it.  The  bayou 
too  was  a  large  stream,  and  not  the  dried  up  dirty  ditch  it  has 
since  become.  The  setting  for  the  play  was  perfect  and  the 
advent  of  the  dog  pulled  it  off  to  perfection. 


DICK  FULLER  AND  THE    PROFESSOR. 

IN   THE   early   seventies    Dick   Fuller    returned    home   from 
college,  having  acquired  at  that  seat  of  learning,  in  addition 
to  a  smattering  of  Latin,  Greek  and  mathematics,  some- 
thing of  an  expert's  knowledge  of  the  games  of  billiards,  pin 
pool  and  the  use  of  a  shotgun.     He  was  and  still  is  a  famous 
shot  and  delights  in  hunting. 

About  the  same  time  there  visited  Houston  one.  of  the  most 
distinguished  educators  from  an  Eastern  college.  This  was  a 
gentleman  who  was  every  inch  a  "Southern  gentleman,"  and  a 
man  who  by  his  fine  "mixing"  qualities  soon  became  widely 
known  and  respected  by  all  who  knew  him.  The  professor  was 
at  heart  one  of  the  boys,  and  being  far  from  his  base  of  opera- 
tion and  out  on  a  vacation,  he  relaxed  and  went  in  for  all  the 
good  things  in  sight.  He  was  no  mean  hand  with  a  billiard  cue 
and  it  was  in  that  way  that  he  and  Dick  became  familiar.  The 
truth  is  that  Dick  captured  the  professor  by  turning  his  own 
guns  on  him.  The  professor  commented  on  Dick's  bald  head 
and  was  taken  off  his  heels  when  Dick  came  back  at  him  with 
a  quotation  from  one  of  the  Latin  classics,  proving  that  hairy 
animals  are  always  the  most  stupid.  The  professor  appreciated 
the  novelty  of  hearing  a  Texas  youth  quote  Latin  so  glibly  and 
a  friendship  between  the  two  began  and  lasted  until  the  pro- 
fessor's unwilling  departure.  Had  Dick  been  ambitious  to  secure 
letters  of  the  alphabet  to  go  behind  his  name,  I  am  certain  that 
all  he  had  to  do  at  that  time  was  to  follow  the  professor  to  his 
particular  college  and  he  could  have  become  a  "doctor"  of  any- 
thing he  chose. 

After  the  professor  had  been  here  a  week  or  two  he  asked 
Dick  to  take  him  out  shooting.  It  was  August  and  prairie 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 31 

chickens  were  "ripe,"  so  Dick  gladly  agreed  to  the  proposition. 

The  next  morning  by  daylight  the  two  were  out  on  the  prairie 
by  Pierce  Junction.  But  I  suspect  I  had  best  let  Dick  tell  the 
story  of  the  actual  hunt. 

"When  the  professor  came  down  out  of  the  hotel  to  get  in 
the  buggy  I  scarcely  recognized  him.  He  wore  a  little  skull 
cap  and  had  on  a  canvas  hunting  jacket  that  was  nothing  but 
pockets.  He  had  on  knee  breeches  and  high  laced  shoes  and 
was  the  breathing  picture  of  those  photographs  you  see  of  kings 
and  dukes  in  the  magazines.  He  had  a  little  shotgun  swung 
over  his  shoulder  and  a  big  belt  full  of  cartridges.  His  uniform 
must  have  weighed  fifty  pounds  at  least,  and  it  was  August,  too, 
when  I  wanted  to  hunt  in  my  shirt-tail.  Well,  the  professor 
said  nothing  about  taking  a  drink,  but  I  could  smell  whiskey 
mighty  plain,  so  I  knew  he  had  made  his  peace  before  coming 
down. 

"The  old  fellow  was  very  dignified  and  very  silent  all  the  way 
out.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  and,  like  that 
famous  race  horse,  he  did  not  seem  to  have  his  mind  on  his 
business.  We  started  in  with  luck,  for  we  started  a  drove  of 
chickens  just  across  Brays  Bayou  and  I  got  two.  After  I  started 
to  drive  on  I  smelt  that  whiskey  again,  though  I  saw  no  signs 
of  it.  When  we  got  to  Pierce  Junction  we  got  out  and  soon  got 
in  among  lots  of  prairie  chickens.  The  sport  was  fine,  for  after 
flushing  they  would  fly  only  a  short  way  and  come  down  again. 
I  yelled  to  the  professor  to  come  on,  but  he  stood  like  a  post 
in  the  prairie  with  his  gun  over  his  arm,  and  did  not  pretend 
to  take  any  part  in  the  sport.  I  gathered  up  my  birds,  and  going 
to  him,  I  rammed  them  in  his  big  pockets.  It  was  the  funniest 
thing  I  ever  saw.  He  did  not  notice  me  but  stood  there  gazing 
off  in  the  distance.  I  concluded  that  some  great  problem  had 
come  to  him  and  that  it  had  so  absorbed  his  mind  that  he  was 
oblivious  to  everything  else  and  did  not  know  what  was  going  on. 

"Finally  I  killed  two  more  chickens  and  when  I  got  to  the 
professor  to  put  them  in  his  pockets  he  looked  at  me  in  a  far- 
away manner  and  said:  'Dick,  why  are  you  discharging  that 
fowling  piece  so  often?  I  see  nothing  to  cause  such  a  fusillade.' 
When  I  told  him  I  was  killing  chickens  he  would  not  believe  me 
and  I  had  to  pull  them  out  of  his  pockets  and  show  them  to 
him.  When  I  did  so  I  dislodged  a  quart  bottle  of  whiskey,  half 
empty,  and  discovered  the  truth.  The  professor  was  as  drunk 
as  a  monkey.  It  was  no  common  drunk,  either,  but  it  was  a  real 
professorial  drunk  with  all  the  dignity  of  his  high  position 
thrown  in.  I  have  seen  lots  of  various  kinds  of  drunks,  but 
that  was  the  first  time  I  recognized  the  genuine  article  from 
which  the  name  'Stone,  stiff  drunk'  came.  The  professor  could 


32  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

do  nothing  but  look.  It  scared  me  at  first,  but  I  got  him  in 
the  buggy  and  drove  back  to  town,  took  him  to  the  hotel  and 
had  him  put  to  bed. 

"The  strange  part  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  the  professor 
never  knew  a  thing  about  going  hunting.  The  next  day  when 
I  met  him  he  said:  'You  rascal,  you  promised  to  take  me  hunt- 
ing yesterday  and  never  showed  up.'  I  tried  to  convince  him 
that  he  had  been  out  with  me,  but  had  to  give  it  up.  Finally  I 
saw  it  worried  him,  so  I  dropped  the  subject.  I  left  half  the 
chickens  at  the  hotel  for  him  but  I  don't  know  whatever  became 
of  them." 

*  *  * 

EVERYBODY    IS   AFRAID   OF   GHOSTS. 

I  DON'T  care  who  he  is,  where  he  comes  from  or  what  he  does, 
when  I  hear  a  man  say  he  is  not  afraid  of  ghosts,  I  simply 
do  not  believe  him.  I  will  not  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
I  think  he  is  lying,  but  I  will  say  that  I  think  he  is  self-deceived 
and  talks  that  way  because  he  has  never  been  tested  and  does 
not  know  whether  he  is  afraid  of  them  or  not.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  latent  superstition  in  every  man,  which  is  as 
much  a  part  of  his  general  make-up  as  is  the  color  of  his  hair. 
This  superstition  may  lie  dormant  throughout  his  entire  life,  just 
the  same,  and  will  spring  into  activity  on  the  first  favorable 
opportunity. 

About  the  most  material,  hard-headed  man  I  ever  knew  was 
Tobe  Mitchell,  who  was  managing  editor  of  the  Houston  Post  in 
1883.  He  hooted  at  the  very  idea  of  haunted  houses,  ghosts  and 
all  those  sort  of  things,  and  expressed  a  great  desire  to  spend 
a  night  in  a  so-called  haunted  house  I  had  told  him  about.  I 
sat  down  and  gave  him  a  detailed  and.  truthful  account  of  what 
had  happened  to  me,  and  when  he  found  that  he  was  to  neither 
see  nor  hear  anything,  and  was  simply  going  to  feel  that  the 
room  was  full  of  ghosts,  all  anxious  to  catch  him  off  his  guard 
so  they  could  nab  him,  he  backed  out  ignominously.  He  still 
swore  the  whole  thing  was  a  lot  of  rot,  but  he  absolutely  re- 
fused to  enter  the  room  after  I  had  made  all  the  arrangements 
for  him  to  occupy  it.  My  story  got  on  his  nerves  and  brought 
out  all  the  latent  superstition  he  had  in  him.  It  was  all  there, 
though  he  knew  nothing  of  its  existence.  If  he  was  not  afraid 
of  ghosts,  why  did  he  back  out? 

Now,  what  made  me  think  of  ghosts  at  all  was  the  fact  that 
Sunday  I  took  a  walk  out  through  Sam  Houston  Park,  and 
while  there  I  thought  of  an  old  single-story,  two-room  brick 
building  that  stood  for  years  in  front  of  the  old  Nobles  residence 
on  San  Felipe  Street — or  rather  road.  Just  when  that  old  build- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 33 

ing  was  put  up  I  never  heard.  It  must  have  been  at  a  very 
early  period  in  Houston's  history,  or  else  it  must  have  been 
constructed  of  very  inferior  material,  for  when  I  first  became 
acquainted  with  it,  in  the  late  fifties,  it  was  almost  a  ruin, 
having  one  side  almost  completely  demolished  and  the  other  not 
much  better. 

The  truth  of  the  adage  about  giving  a  dog  a  bad  name  was 
never  better  exemplified  than  in  that  old  building.  For  no  cause 
on  earth  some  one  started  a  report  that  the  house  was  haunted. 
All  specific  information  and  all  details  were  wanting,  and  yet  in 
an  incredibly  short  time  you  could  not  get  a  negro  or  a  boy  in 
Houston  to  go  near  that  house  after  dark.  I  link  the  negroes  and 
boys  together  in  the  preceding  paragraph,  for  when  it  came  to 
believing  in  ghosts  or  any  other  superstition  they  were  in  a  class 
peculiarly  their  own. 

Now,  there  was  an  exception  to  this  fear  of  ghosts  in  the  per- 
son of  John  Steel,  son  of  the  man  who  afterward  killed  Colonel 
Kirby  of  Hempstead.  John  was  a  great  big,  healthy  boy,  and 
was  as  game  as  a  gamecock.  He  was  not  afraid  of  anything, 
living  or  dead,  and  talked  so  contemptuously  about  our  haunted 
house  that  it  made  us  angry.  Finally  Charley  Gentry  bet  him 
five  dollars  that  he  would  not  go  into  that  house  and  remain 
there  until  daylight  alone.  There  were  some  other  conditions, 
among  them  being  that  John  should  read  a  certain  book.  How 
I  remember  that  book!  It  was  called  "The  Night  Side  of  Na- 
ture," and  was  a  compilation  of  the  most  horrible  ghost  stories, 
all  sworn  to  and  authenticated.  I  borrowed  it  afterward,  but 
took  care  to  read  it  only  in  the  daytime. 

John  agreed  to  everything,  and  when  the  fatal  night  came  we 
escorted  him  to  the  house,  avoiding  the  Episcopal  graveyard  in 
doing  so.  We  had  an  old  chair  for  him  to  sit  on  and  left  him 
three  candles.  He  was  really  the  only  cool  and  indifferent  boy 
in  the  crowd. 

We  went  off  and  hid  among  some  coffee  bean  weeds  near  the 
side  of  the  road  and  watched  for  developments.  We  could  see 
the  light  shining  through  the  cracks  in  the  door  and  also  in  the 
wall  of  the  old  house.  We  waited  and  waited,  but  nothing  hap- 
pened. One  of  the  boys  crept  up  and  peeped  in  and  came  back 
and  reported  that  John  was  sitting  there  reading  and  smoking 
a  pipe,  "just  like  old  folks." 

Charley  Gentry  began  to  get  anxious  about  his  five-dollar  bet, 
and  realized  that  something  had  to  be  done.  Finally  he  an- 
nounced that  if  anybody  would  go  with  him  he  would  get  some- 
thing that  would  move  John  out  of  that  house  in  a  hurry. 
One  of  the  boys  volunteered  and  they  left.  They  were  gone  a 
long  time,  and  when  they  returned  we  all  realized  that  some- 


34 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

thing  was  going  to  happen  sure  enough.  Charley  had  gone  to  Dr. 
Robinson's  office  and  stolen  a  skull.  It  was  a  horrible  looking 
skull,  too.  It  had  no  lower  jaw,  but  .was  well  supplied  with 
upper  teeth,  with  only  one  or  two  missing  ones,  which  added 
to  its  outrageous  appearance.  Charley  had  gotten  a  big  news- 
paper, to  do  duty  as  a  sheet.  He  decorated  a  pole  with  the 
paper  and  then  stuck  the  skull  on  the  end  of  the  pole.  It  was 
about  the  scariest  thing  I  ever  saw.  One  of  the  boys  slipped 
up  and  took  a  look  at  John.  He  found  him  as  quiet  and  well 
satisfied  as  ever,  and  so  reported  to  us.  Charley  was  a  bit 
anxious  about  being  alone  in  the  dark  with  that  skull,  so  he 
asked  one  or  two  of  us  to  go  with  him  to  the  house.  I  went 
and  took  a  stand  on  one  side  of  the  house,  where  I  could  see 
everything  that  happened.  There  was  a  big  window  at  one  end 
of  the  room  in  which  John  was,  and  Charley  sneaked  up  to  this 
window  very  carefully.  Then  he  gave  an  awful  groan,  scraped 
the  skull  along  the  side  of  the  house  and  poked  it  right  in  the 
window,  which  had  no  glass  in  it. 

I  knew  what  the  thing  was,  of  course,  but  I  swear  I  came 
near  running  when  I  saw  that  skull  come  through  the  window. 
It  was  simply  awful.  John  took  one  look  and  then  Charley 
realized  that  he  had  won  his  bet,  for  things  began  to  happen. 
John  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  like  a  wild  bull.  He  turned 
over  his  chair  and  knocked  the  candle  over,  leaving  the  place 
in  darkness.  The  next  moment  he  was  out  of  the  door,  carrying 
it  and  part  of  the  frame  with  him.  When  he  got  outside  he 
headed  for  town  and  the  boys  hidden  in  the  weeds  said  that  it 
sounded  like  a  drove  of  army  mules  when  he  passed  them.  They 
yelled  at  him,  but  that  simply  added  to  his  speed,  if  that  were 
possible. 

We  did  not  see  anything  of  him  for  several  days,  and  the  queer 
thing  was  that,  although  Charley  Gentry  had  won  the  five  dol- 
lars, he  was  afraid  to  ask  John  for  the  money.  John  swore 
that  if  ever  he  found  out  who  did  it  he  would  kill  the  fellow 
who  poked  "that  dead  man  in  on  him." 

Now,  if  anyone  doubts  the  potency  of  a  skull  stuck  on  the  end 
of  a  pole,  let  him  stick  one  in  the  door  or  window  of  a  non- 
believer  in  ghosts  about  midnight,  and  if  he  does  not  get  good 
action  I  stand  prepared  to  eat  the  skull.  I  believe  even  a  dead 
man  would  get  up  and  leave  the  room. 
*  *  * 

PLENTY   OF   ACTION— BUT    NO    GAME. 

A  FEW  days  ago  I  was  over  at  the  Grand  Central  Depot 
when  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  train  came  in  and 
several  hunters  got  off  with  well-filled  game  bags.    The 
sight  made  me  think  of  a/ hunt  I  once  took  out  on  that  road.      Hock- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 35 

ley  was  a  famous  place  at  that  time  for  duck  shooting.  Captain 
John  Warren  had  the  eating  house  at  Hockley,  and,  being  a  great 
hunter  himself,  he  always  had  parties  from  over  the  state  visit- 
ing him.  The  captain  had  been  a  game-keeper  in  England  be- 
fore he  came  to  this  country  and  what  he  did  not  know  about 
guns,  dogs  and  anything  pertaining  to  hunting  was  not  worth 
knowing.  He  was  rather  stiff  and  offish  at  first  acquaintance, 
but  would  thaw  out  soon  and  then  he  was  a  most  delightful 
companion. 

Dr.  Alva  Connell  and  I  had  an  office  on  Texas  Avenue  right 
back  of  where  the  Binz  building  now  stands,  and  as  neither  of 
us  had  a  patient  we  concluded  to  go  up  to  Hockley  and  have 
some  fun  shooting  ducks.  We  sent  a  boy  over  to  the  depot 
with  our  guns  and  traps,  and,  sticking  up  a  notice  reading, 
"Called  out  of  town  on  professional  business.  Will  return  to- 
morrow or  next  day,"  we  followed  the  boy  and  were  soon  on  our 
way  to  Hockley. 

That  was  in  the  early  70's  and  it  had  been  raining  for  weeks, 
so  we  knew  there  would  be  plenty  of  water  and  consequently 
plenty  of  ducks.  We  arrived  at  Hockley  about  4  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  and  called  on  Captain  Warren  as  soon  as  we  got 
there.  He  sized  us  up  as  two  dudes  and  seemed  to  be  rather 
afraid  of  us.  He  hesitated  a  long  time  about  letting  us  have 
a  rig,  but  finally  consented  to  do  so.  I  don't  think  he  would 
have  done  so  at  all  if  Connell  had  not  mentioned  my  grand- 
father, who  was  paymaster  of  the  Central  at  that  time.  Having 
secured  the  rig,  which  was  a  two-wheeled  gig,  and  Connell 
having  negotiated  successfully  for  a  pony,  the  captain  very  re- 
luctantly consented  to  lend  us  his  dog.  Now  this  dog  was  of 
royal  descent  and  had  better  blood  in  his  veins,  in  Captain  War- 
ren's opinion,  than  had  any  member  of  the  royal  family. 

The  captain  gave  us  the  most  minute  instructions  about  how 
to  treat  the  dog  and  said  he  would  not  have  anything  happen 
to  him  for  any  money.  The  dog  seemed  to  mistrust  us  as  much 
as  the  captain  did,  for  when  we  got  ready  to  start  he  would 
not  follow  us  at  all.  Then  the  captain  got  a  rope  and  hitched 
the  dog  on  behind  my  gig  and  we  started  off  in  great  shape. 
The  captain  directed  us  where  to  go  and  we  crossed  the  rail- 
road track  and  set  off  across  the  prairie. 

When  we  were  about  two  miles  out  several  snipe,  showing 
the  utmost  contempt  for  'us  and  our  guns,  settled  down  on  the 
prairie  not  20  feet  from  where  we  were.  Connell  jumped  off 
his  horse  and,  handing  me  the  bridle,  began  to*  advance  on  the 
snipe.  Just  as  he  got  by  my  horse's  head  the  snipe  flew  up 
and  Connell  fired  at  them.  Up  to  that  point  I  had  been  using 
the  whip  on  the  horse  to  make  him  go  at  all.  Now  his  whole 


36 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

character  changed,  as  if  by  magic.  He  gave  one  mighty  leap 
at  the.  crack  of  that  gun  and  spilled  everything  but  me  out  of 
the  gig.  It  was  the  funniest  leap  you  ever  saw.  He  went 
fully  20  feet  and  when  he  lit  he  came  down  on  his  hind  legs 
and  ran  20  feet  further  on-  his  hind  legs  just  like  folks.  Then 
he  made  a  mighty  plunge,  lowering  his  head  just  as  if  he  were 
going  to  turn  a  somersault.  When  he  did  that  he  snapped  one 
of  the  reins  off  close  to  the  bit.  Evidently  thinking  that  he  was 
free,  he  began  a  series  of  the  most  disgraceful  antics,  and  at 
times  I  really  believe  he  thought  of  getting  in  the  gig  with  me 
and  riding  home.  His  conduct  was  scandalous.  Then  he  sud- 
denly changed  his  mind,  gave  up  his  circus  performance  and 
bolted  in  dead  earnest. 

There  was  water  and  mud  everywhere,  and  he  threw  up  tons 
of  both,  it  seemed  to  me,  at  every  plunge  he  made.  If  the 
concern  had  had  four  wheels  he  would  have  smashed  up  things 
and  made  his'  escape,  but  being  a  two-wheel  concern  it  could 
turn  as  rapidly  as  he,  and  did  so.  When  he  settled  down  to 
ever  running  I  began  to  pull  on  the  one  rein,  for  I  did  not  want 
to  run  clear  out  of  the  county  and  leave  Connell  there.  His 
horse  made  a  bee-line  for  home  the  moment  he  found  himself 
loose. 

My  horse  completed  one  of  the  most  graceful  curves  that  was 
ever  made  on  that  prairie  and  was  just  beginning  to  make 
another  near  where  we  had  started  when  some  ducks  flew 
over,  and  Connell  took  a  shot  at  them.  That  settled  everything. 
My  horse  became  absolutely  frantic.  He  whirled  round  first  to 
the  right  and  then,  changing  his  mind  when  he  found  himself 
facing  Connell  and  his  gun,  he  gave  a  mighty  leap,  and  it  seemed 
to  me,  in  two  different  directions  at  the  same  time.  The  result 
was  that  I  was  thrown  out  of  the  gig  into  a  mass  of  mud  and 
water,  and  the  horse  was  free.  There  was  a  terrible  splashing 
of  water  and  mud  as  that  horse  passed  me.  He  had  the  gall 
to  take  a  good  look  at  me  before  leaving  for  good  and  I  fancied 
I  could  see  him  grinning.  The  next  moment  he  was  headed  for 
Hockley  at  a  gait  that  would  have  won  him  fame  and  renown 
had  he  been  on  a  race  track.  As  he  departed  I  made  a  horrible 
discovery.  There  was  that  thousand-dollar  dog  of  the  captain's 
tied  fast  behind  a  gig  being  dragged  at  an  incredible  speed 
through  mud  and  water,  right  into  the  captain's  presence.  Con- 
nell and  I  got  together  and  held  a  consultation.  We  watched 
the  horse  and  dog  approach  Hockley  and  to  our  consternation, 
just  as  they  got  to  the  railroad  crossing  a  freight  train  blew 
its  whistle  and  that  fool  horse  took  fresh  fright.  Instead  of 
stopping  at  home,  as  he  evidently  intended  doing  at  first,  he 
took  a  fresh  start,  passed  clear  through  the  town  and  the  last 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 37 

we  saw  of  him  he  was  trying  to  make  his  way  into  the  next 
county  north  of  Hockley.  Connell  and  I  started  to  walk  to 
Cypress,  stay  there  all  night  and  ca'tch  the  morning  train  into 
Houston,  but  the  mud  and  water  conquered  even  our  fear  of 
Captain  Warren,  so  we  trudged  back  to  Hockley. 

We  found  the  captain  so  mad  he  could  hardly  talk,  but  for- 
tunately the  dog  had  sustained  no  serious  injury.  He  was  a 
sight,  though,  and  if  we  had  dared  to  do  so  we  would  have  had 
a  good  laugh  at  him.  He  was  such  a  mass  of  mud  that  you 
could  not  tell  whether  he  was  a  dog,  calf  or  what  he  was. 

It  was  nearly  dark  now,  so  we  had  to  give  up  all  idea  of  hunt- 
ing that  evening;  we  sat  by  a  good  fire  and  dried  our  clothes 
while  the  captain  told  us  about  hunting  in  England.  He  prom- 
ised to  wake  us  at  daylight,  but  he  did  not  do  so,  and  when  we 
awoke  it  was  nearly  train  time.  I  thought  then  and  have 
thought  ever  since  that  he  let  us  sleep  on  purpose  to  keep  from 
turning  us  down  when  we  asked  for  another  hunting  rig.  We 
got  up  and  after  a  good  breakfast  took  our  things-  over  to  the 
depot  to  catch  the  train,  which  we  could  see  coming  in  the  dis- 
tance. Connell  said  he  hated  to  go  home  without  killing  any- 
thing, so  he  took  his  gun  and  went  back  of  a  big  barn  where 
there  were  thousands  of  blackbirds.  We  waited  to  hear  him 
shoot,  but  he  did  not  do  so.  Then,  just  as  the  engine  blew 
for  the  station,  we  heard  his  gun  go  off  and  he  came  from  the 
barn  terribly  excited  and  running  to  catch  the  train,  which 
stopped  only  for  a  moment.  As  he  came  up  he  cried  out  "Cap- 
tain, I  killed  a  big  fox  back  of  your  barn.  I  did  not  have  time 
to  get  him,  but  I  wish  you  would  do  so  and  send  him  to  me.'* 

"Now,"  said  the  captain,  almost  speechless  with  indignation, 
"you  have  played  .  You  have  killed  my  pet  fox." 

We  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  dived  onto  the  train  and  were 
thankful  to  feel  it  moving  the  next  moment.  That  was  about 
the  most  strenuous  hunt  I  ever  went  on.  It  is  true  the  only 
thing  we  killed  was  a  pet  fox,  but  we  had  action  for  our  money 
during  every  moment  we  spent  in  Hockley. 

+  +  * 

EARLY  FIREMEN  GALLANT  SOLDIERS. 

JUDGE  JAMES  K.  P.  GILLASPIE,  who  was  at  one  time  chief 
of  the  old  volunteer  fire  department,  has  in  his  possession, 
the  books  of  Hook  and  Ladder  No.  1,  which  he  allowed 
me  to  look  over  a  day  or  two  ago.    I  found  much  of  interest  in 
these  books,  but,  as  was  the  case  with  Judge  Anders'  old  court 
records,  it  was  the  memories  evoked  rather  than  anything  else 
that  appealed  to  me.     One  portion  in  particular  was  the  record 
which  began  in  1859  and  broke  off  suddenly  in  1861,  to  be  re- 


38 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

sumed  again  in  1865,  with  nearly  all  new  names.  The  great 
war  had  intervened  between  those  two  dates.  The  last  meeting 
of  the  company,  before  the  war,  was  held  in  May,  1861.  As  a 
matter  of  general  interest  I  give  the  roster  of  the  company  at 
that  time:  • 

Officers — E.  R.  Bremond,  foreman;  Ed  Riordan,  assistant  fore- 
man; J.  B.  Cato,  secretary;  G.  L.  Griscom,  assistant  secretary; 

D.  K.  Rice,  treasurer;   J.   C.  Baldwin,  president;   F.  H.  Bailey, 
vice  president. 

Members — R.  A.  Allen,  W.  H.  Allen,  T.  P.  Brain,  J.  S.  Benton, 

E.  A.  Burke,  C.  Buckley,  W.  H.  Clark,  C.  A.  Darling,  R.  W.  De 
Lesdernier,  T.  P.  Evert,  Charles  Eika,  C.  G.  Fisher,  H.  Fleish- 
man, A.  J.  Hay,  F.  L.  Hoffman,  A.  J.  Hurley,  J.  W.   Mangum, 
J.  R.  Morris,  C.  H.  Merriman,  A.  S.  Mair,  George  Merriweather, 
J.  D.  McClary,  Thomas  O'Donnell,  Louis  Pless,  G.  W.  Perkins, 

F.  A.   Rice,   I.  C.  Shaffer,  J.   H.    Sawyer,   W.    C.    Timmins,    Ed 
White,  W.  F.  Wright,  W.  Williams,  C.  Westlake. 

Now  some  person  has  marked  in  the  book  certain  notes  giving, 
here  and  there,  information  concerning  these  old  members. 
These  notes  are  very  brief  and  do  not  do  justice  to  the  memory 
of  the  men.  For  instance,  opposite  the  name  of  F.  L.  Hoffman, 
is  this  entry:  "Killed  by  the  Yankeys."  The  others  are  equally 
as  brief  and  unsatisfying.  Now  as  I  chance  to  know  some  of 
them  and  of  the  records  they  made  in  the  Confederate  army, 
I  propose  to  give  a  brief  history  of  them  and  ask  Judge  Gil- 
laspie  to  paste  it  in  the  old  book.  As  a  matter  "of  fact  nearly 
every  member  of  the  company  went  into  the  Confederate  army. 
I.  C.  Stafford  organized  the  first  company  that  left  Houston  and 
rose  to  the  rank  of  major.  Ed  Riordan  also  left  as  captain  of 
a  company.  Captain  F.  A.  Rice  served  on  Magruder's  staff, 
I  believe.  There  were  a  number  of  others,  who  I  am  sure  were 
in  the  army,  though  I  am  not  certain  where  they  served.  I  do 
know  all  about  five  of  them,  because  they  were  members  of 
Hood's  Texas  Brigade,  all  but  one,  Captain  Dave  Rice,  belong- 
ing to  the  Bayou  City  Guards,  Company  A,  Fifth  Texas  Regi- 
ment. 

T.  P  .Bryan  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  the  Wilderness,  on  May 
6,  1864. 

J.  W.  DeLesdernier  was  killed  at  Gains'  Farm,  June  27,  1862. 

W.  H.  Clark  belonged  to  Company  A,  and  after  Onderdonk,  the 
color  bearer,  was  disabled  at  Gains'  Farm,  he  became  color 
bearer  for  the  Fifth  Regiment.  Clark  was  badly  wounded  in 
Chickamauga,  September  19,  1863,  and  was  again  dangerously 
wounded  while  bearing  the  colors  at  the  Wilderness,  May  6, 
1864.  This  last  time  he  was  incapacitated  for  further  service 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 39 

and  was  sent  home.    He  lived  several  years  after  the  war  and 
died  in  Austin. 

C.  A.  Merriman  belonged  to  Company  A,  Fifth  Regiment.  He 
was  wounded  in  one  of  the  first  skirmishes  his  company  got  in, 
and  was  then  attacked  by  what  the  doctors  said  was  galloping 
consumption.  He  was  honorably  discharged  from  the  army  and 
returned  to  Texas  to  die.  During  the  winter  of  1862  the  Federal 
war  vessel,  the  Hariot  Lane,  had  anchored  in  the  Potomac  and 
kept  up  an  almost  constant  bombardment  of  the  winter  quarters 
of  the  Texas  brigade.  Charley  Merriman  got  back  to  Texas 
late  in  the  fall  of  1862  and  when  he  learned  that  Magruder  was 
organizing  his  forces  to  take  Galveston  and  that  the  Hariot 
Lane  was  one  of  the  vessels  there,  he  volunteered  to  go  down 
on  the  Bayou  City,  one  of  the  Confederate  boats,  that  was  to 
attack  the  Federal  vessels.  He  was  more  than  half  dead  any 
way.  He  was  in  the  fight  that  took  place  January  1,  1863, 
and  had  the  pleasure  of  getting  even  with  the  Lane,  by  helping 
to  capture  her.  Now  here  a  miracle  was  worked.  Merriman 
had  his  arm  badly  shattered  by  a  piece  of  shell  and  he  was  shot 
right  through  the  lung.  His  arm  got  well  and  what  was  more 
remarkable,  the  bullet  through  his  lung  cured  his  consumption. 
He  was  never  troubled  with  his  lung  after  that  and  got  so  fat 
and  healthy  that  he  returned  to  Virginia  and  remained  with  his 
comrades  till  the  close  of  the  war. 

The  other  member  whose  record  I  know  was  Captain  Dave 
Rice,  the  youngest  brother  of  Wm.  M.  and  F.  A.  Rice.  He  was 
one  of  the  handsomest  men  to  be  found  anywhere.  He  was  per- 
haps too  effeminate  looking,  for  he  had  the  complexion  of  a  girl. 
His  complexion  was  the  only  effeminate  thing  about  him,  for  he 
was  a  man,  every  inch  of  him,  and  one  of  the  most  gallant  sol- 
diers in  Lee's  army.  He  was  captain  of  Company  C,  First  Texas 
Regiment,  but  did  more  duty  as  a  field  officer  than  as  a  com- 
pany commander.  He  was  in  command  of  the  First  Regiment 
at  the  battle  of  Chickamauga,  September  19  and  20,  1863,  and 
had  quite  a  strange  experience  there  on  the  first  day's  fight. 
He  was  captured  and  taken  before  General  Rosecrans.  Of 
.course  he  refused  to  give  any  information,  but  the  general  kept 
him  with  him  and  for  two  hours  he  was  literally  under  the  fire 
of  both  armies.  I  say  "under,"  for  that's  what  he  was.  His  own 
brigade  was  on  one  hill  and  the  Federals  were  on  an  opposite 
hill,  while  Rosecrans  and  his  staff  were  in  the  narrow  and  deep 
valley,  so  that  all  the  fighting  went  on  over  their  heads.  Late 
that  night  an  opportunity  presented  itself  and  Captain  Rice  made 
his  escape,  but  was  unable  to  get  back  to  his  command  for  sev- 
eral weeks. 
I  wish  I  knew  something  about  the  war  records  of  the  other 


40 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

members,   for  it  would  give  me  great  pleasure  to   write  them 
down  here. 

*  *  * 

A  HARD  LUCK  STORY. 

I   READ  a  "hard  luck"  story  the  other  day  and  it  reminded 
me  that  Frank  Le  Mott  had  once  told  me  one  of  the  best 
stories  of  the  kind  I  have  ever  heard.     One  day  Frank  said 
to  me:     "Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Limpy  Lewis'  hard  luck?" 
and  when  I  answered  in  the  negative  he  told  me  the  following: 

"This  Limpy  Lewie  gets  his  name  from  having  a  wooden  leg 
that  is  always  wearing  off  at  the  bottom,  so  that.it  is  too  short 
for  his  good  leg.  He  walks  lopsided  when  he  prances  along  the 
street  and  the  boys  get  to  calling  him  'Limpy.'  He  is  a  no- 
count  kind  of  a  fellow,  a  tramp  soldier  of  fortune,  and  a  gambler. 
When  he  wins  he  rolls  in  good  things  to  eat  and  when  he  loses 
he  bums  for  his  grub.  It's  chicken  one  day  and  feathers  the 
next  with  him.  He  is  a  good-natured  sort  of  chap  and  the 
other  gamblers  help  him  along  occasionally,  when  they  have 
anything  to  help  him  with.  The  men  who  own  the  games  give 
him  a  commission  on  all  the  customers  he  can  bring  them,  so 
he  generally  hangs  out  around  the  hotels  early  in  the  evening, 
looking  for  suckers. 

"One  morning  Limpy  got  hold  of  a  greenhorn  and  when  the 
bank  got  through  with  him  Limpy  had  a  real  good  stake  coming 
to  him.  He  thought  he  was  in  such  good  luck  that  he  would  go 
against  the  bank  himself  and  did  so.  At  first  he  won  and  had 
a  big  pile  of  chips  in  front  of  him  for  an  hour  or  two.  Then 
his  luck  changed  and  he  lost  everything  he  had.  He  got  up 
dead  broke  and  concluded  to  go  out  and  find  another  sucker. 
While  going  to  the  nearest  hotel  to  look. over  the  situation,  he 
met  a  tall  stranger,  dressed  like  a  cowman.  The  stranger  asked 
him  if  he  could  direct  him  to  a  square  game.  Limpy  told  him 
he  knew  exactly  where  to  put  his  finger  on  it  and  invited  him 
to  go  with  him.  As  they  started  the  stranger  told  him  he 
wanted  nothing  but  a  square  game,  and  if  he  would  lead  him  to 
one  of  that  kind,  he  would  give  him  a  quarter  of  what  he  won,, 
if  he  did  win.  He  did  that  to  protect  himself,  for  with  that  pros- 
pect in  sight  Limpy  would  pull  for  him  to  win,  even  if  he  were 
playing  against  Limpy's  best  friend.  There  was  no  mixing  of 
sentiment  and  business  when  Limpy  had  a  case  like  that.  Limpy 
was  going  to  take  him  against  a  brace  game,  but  when  the 
stranger  mentioned  that  quarter  share  for  him  he  changed  his 
mind  and  took  him  to  the  best  and  squarest  game  in  town. 

"When  they  got  there  the  stranger  bought  $500  worth  of  chips 
and  wanted  to  make  two  bets  of  the  whole  thing.  That 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 41 

was  too  big  for  the  bank  and  considerable  argument  took  place, 
the  stranger  trying  to  get  the  bank  to  raise  the  limit  and  let 
him  bet  his  money.  At  last  the  limit  was  raised  to  $200,  except 
on  "case  cards,"  when  it  was  fixed  at  $100. 

"When  the  game  got  to  going  good,  the  proprietor  took  Limpy 
off  on  one  side  and  told  him  he  was  glad  to  see  him  and  his 
friend,  and  that  he  was  going  to  be  liberal  with  him  and  give 
him  20  per  cent  of  all  the  house  won  from  the  stranger  and  that 
he  would  do  the  same  thing  on  all  customers  like  this  one  he 
could  bring  him. 

"The  stranger  was  a  big  cattle  man  who  was  famous  for  his 
big  bets  and  gambling.  In  an  hour  or  so  it  looked  like  he  was 
going  to  break  the  bank.  He  had  about  $8000  worth  of  chips  in 
front  of  him  and  was  scattering  them  in  heaps  of  $200  all  over 
the  table.  Then  for  a  few  hours  luck  went  one  way  and  then 
the  other.  It  was  daylight  now  and  the  game  was  just  warming 
up.  By  10  o'clock  the  stranger  was  in  the  hole  for  about  $20,000, 
but  still  bought  chips  and  showed  no  signs  of  quitting.  Limpy 
sat  there,  half  dead  for  sleep,  but  afraid  to  go  to  sleep  or  to 
leave  for  a  moment.  The  luck  changed  and  the  stranger  began 
to  win  again.  By  5  o'clock  the  stranger  had  all  his  money  back 
and  was  a  few  thousand  ahead.  Then  he  struck  a  good  deal 
and  quit  it  about  $18,000  ahead.  Limpy  was  crazy  for  him  to 
cash  in  and  quit,  but  was  afraid  to  say  a  word,  so  all  he  could 
do  was  to  sit  there  and  suffer.  The  game  went  on,  first  one  and 
then  the  other  being  ahead.  The  dealers  and  lookouts  had  been 
changed  two  or  three  times,  of  course,  but  Limpy  and  the 
stranger  had  to  stay  there  in  person. 

"For  convenience's  sake  the  value  of  the  chips  had  been  placed 
at  $100  each,  so  it  was  not  hard  to  keep  track  of  the  winnings 
and  losses.  About  4  o'clock  the  second  morning  the  stranger 
took  stock  and  found  he  was  just  $900  ahead  of  the  game.  He 
said  to  the  proprietor:  'If  you  say  so  I  will  make  one  bet  of  this, 
for  I'm  getting  tired.  It's  double  or  nothing.  Shall  she  go?' 
The  proprietor  agreed,  the  bet  was  made  and  the  stranger  lost. 
He  got  up  and  quit,  exactly  even,  and  poor  old  Limpy  fainted. 
He  had  sat  there  for  two  nights  and  a  day,  drinking  coffee  to 
keep  awake  and  with  a  sure  winning  for  himself  in  sight  all  the 
time,  until  the  last  minute. 

"That,"  said  Frank,  "was  the  toughest  luck  I  ever  heard  of." 

*  *  * 

A   PRESS  CLUB   EVENING. 

THE    HOUSTON    PRESS    CLUB   is    rather   a   remarkable 
aggregation.     More    so    than    the   members   themselves 
realize.     Seated  around  a  table  in  the  reading  room  a 
few  evenings  ago  was  a  representative  of  Grant's  army  of  the 


42 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Potomac,  another  of  Lee's  army  of  Northern  Virginia,  two  men 
who  had  served  through  the  South  African  war,  one  with  the 
Boers  and  the  other  with  the  English,  a  Philippine  veteran  and 
one  or  two  others,  whose  claim  to  fame  rested  on  the  fact  that 
they  had  seen  much  of  the  world,  having  been  wanderers  and 
adventure  seekers.  On  the  whole,  these  last  were  the  most 
interesting  members  of  the  group. 

The  talk  drifted  from  the  Potomac  to  Ladysmith,  from  Cuba 
to  the  Philippines,  drifted  about  over  Central  and  South  America 
and  finally  cast  anchor  in  the  magazine  offices  and  theatres, 
where  newspaper  men  generally  come  to  rest.  There  was  a 
guest  present  who,  I  have  since  heard,  held  a  clinical  position 
in  the  advertising  department  of  a  New  York  newspaper  some 
years  ago.  At  the  proper  time  he  seized  the  central  position 
in  the  talk  and  soon  had  everybody  "backed  off  the  boards," 

"I  saw  Jack  London  last  month,"  he  said.  "In  fact,  I  was  with 
him  for  several  weeks — went  over  to  Salt  Lake  City  from  San 
Francisco  with  him.  He  is  writing  a  new  book — best  one  he 
ever  wrote.  *  Jack  is  a  bird — easiest  thing  in  the  world  for  him 
to  write.  On  the  train  something  happened  that  reminded  him 
of  a  story.  He  got  out  his  pad,  scribbled  off  a  couple  of  thou- 
sand words,  put  it  in  an  envelope  and  mailed  it  on  the  train. 
About  a  week  after  we  arrived  in  Salt  Lake  there  came  a  letter 
from  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  containing  a  check  for  $1000 
and  asking  for  more." 

"Do  you  ever  write  fiction?"  I  asked  him.  I  knew  that  he 
dealt  in  it,  but  I  wanted  to  know  if  he  ever  sold  any  of  it. 

"Sure  thing,"  he  replied.  "Make  my  living  writing  stories. 
Have  never  had  one  sent  back  yet.  Got  $75  for  the  first  one  I 
ever  sent  in  and  it  was  only  about  700  words.  Happened  to 
hit  'em  the  first  time  and  have  been  hitting  'em  ever  since." 

"Yes,  sir,"  chimed  in  the  voice  of  the  Boer  veteran.  "I  was 
there.  I  had  a  big  store  on  the  outskirts  of  Johannesberg,  and 
was  doing  good  business  when  the  war  began.  I  was  trying  to 
sell  out  so  as  to  join  the  army  when  a  company  of  English  cav- 
alry come  along.  I  had  a  big  warehouse  filled  with  hay.  The 
officer  in  command  belonged  to  the  quartermaster  department 
and  was  out  searching  for  provender.  He  offered  me  a  good 
price  for  the  hay.  I  accepted  his  offer  and  he  paid  cash.  He 
left,  going  South.  About  an  hour  later  another  party  of  English 
came  along.  The  officer  in  command  was  a  young  lieutenant 
who  was  very  pompous  and  dignified.  He  recognized  me  as  a 
native,  and,  rightfully,  concluded  that  I  was  a  rebel.  He  saw 
the  hay  and  fearing  that  it  would  fall  in  the  hands  of  the  Boers 
if  left  there,  ordered  it  burned.  I  told  him  that  an  English 
captain  had  bought  it  and  that  it  belonged  to  his  own  people, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 43 

but  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  He  ordered  me  to  stand  aside 
and  set  fire  to  the  hay  much  to  my  secret  delight.  I  lost  $30,000, 
got  wounded  three  times  and  suffered  greatly  during  the  war, 
but  that  fellow  burning  hay  compensated  me  for  everything  I 
went  through.  Every  time  I  think  of  it  I  feel  better." 

"Before  Teddy  butted  into  their  game  those  Panama  chaps 
used  to  be  'some  soon'  on  revolutions,"  chimed  in  the  deep  bass 
voice  of  the  ex-telegraph  operator,  ex-all  around  newspaper  man 
and  ex-gentlemanly  tramp.  "The  first  day  I  got  down  there  they 
pulled  off  two,  one  in  the  morning  and  one  in  the  afternoon.  I 
was  taking  a  drink  when  I  heard  some  shots  fired  up  the  street. 
The  'barkeep'  went  crazy  in  a  minute,  uttering  the  Spanish 
equivalent  for  'Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death,'  he  seized  an 
old  hoss-pistol,  leaped  the  counter  and  tore  up  the  street.  I 
followed  him  to  the  door,  but  when  I  saw  about  50  ragged,  dirty- 
looking  fellows  coming  down  the  street,  shooting  old-fashioned 
muzzle-loading  shotguns  and  muskets,  right  and  left,  I  went  out 
of  the  back  door,  swam  the  river  and  quit  the  revolution  right 
there.  In  a  couple  of  hours  the  revolution  was  over  and  the 
new  government  had  been  established.  I  determined  to  return 
to  town.  But  just  as  I  got  to  the  bridge  another  revolution 
broke  out,  only  a  block  away.  It  was  a  revolution  to  overthrow 
the  revolution  that  had  taken  place  in  the  morning.  I  went 
under  the  bridge  and  lay  there  until  it  was  over.  Then  I  crawled 
out  and  left  town  for  good." 

"Why,"  said  one  of  two  gentlemen  who  had  been  comparing 
notes  on  Arizona,  New  Mexico  and  Mexico,  "that  mine  you 
speak  of  is  nothing.  Six  years  ago  a  party  of  five  of  us  left 
New  Orleans  for  Mexico.  I  got  sick  and  had  to  turn  back.  The 
other  four  went  on  and  a  month  after  they  got  there  discovered 
a  rich  gold  mine.  The  ore  assayed  more  than  $1000  to  the  ton. 
They  got  the  German  consul  interested  with  the  result  that  they 
sold  the  mine  to  a  German  syndicate  for  $4,000,000  in  gold. 
The  syndicate  put  up  fine  machinery  and  went  to  work,  but  in 
a  week  the  ore  played  out.  It  was  only  a  'pocket'." 

Now,  one  can  judge  from  these  fragments  of  conversation 
just  what  an  interesting  place  the  Houston  Press  Club  is.  As 
a  matter  of  fact  there  may  not  be  a  successful  author  or  play- 
wright in  the  crowd,  but  that  does  not  bar  claims  nor  assertions, 
and  if  there  are  no  really  successful  writers  there  should  be  for 
there  is  plenty  of  raw  material  on  hand,  and  one  has  only  to 
keep  one's  ears  open  to  get  everything  necessary  for  the  mak- 
ing of  a  short  story,  book  or  drama  right  from  first  hand. 

The  Press  Club  is  a  great  institution  and  its  members  are 
great,  too — if  you  let  them  tell  it. 


44 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

HOUSTON'S  POLICE  FORCE. 

EVEN  after  Houston  had  received  a  charter  and  had  a 
regularly  elected  city  marshal  (now  called  chief  of 
police),  police  matters  were  more  or  less  in  the  hands  of 
-the  sheriff.  There  was  never  any  jealousy,  conflict  of  authority 
or  anything -of  that  sort.  The  question  was  a  simple  one.  If 
the  sheriff  happened  to  be  present  he  acted,  and  the  same  was 
true  of  the  marshal.  No  questions  were  asked  by  the  absent 
one  or  his  friends,  and  everything  moved  along  smoothly. 

The  office  of  city  marshal  and  market  master  were  combined 
at  first,  and  Captain  Newt.  Smith,  a  veteran  of  San  Jacinto, 
had  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  city  marshal  of  Houston. 
He  was  a  small  man,  but  a  very  game  and  determined  one,  and 
never  had  the  least  trouble  in  enforcing  his  authority,  because 
the  evildoers  knew  to  resist  him  meant  disaster  to  themselves, 
so  they  submitted  gracefully.  He  served  until  1844,  when  he 
voluntarily  retired  to  private  life  and  was  succeeded  by  a  name- 
sake, Captain  "Billy"  Smith. 

The  old  records  do  not  contain  anything  that  gives  evidence 
of  Captain  "Billy"  having  had  anything  except  an  easy,  quiet 
time  during  the  five  years  of  his  incumbency. 

Captain  "Billy"  was  succeeded  by  Captain  Bob  Boyce,  who  was 
very  much  such  a  man  as  the  first  marshal,  Captain  Newt. 
Smith.  Captain  Boyce  was  rather  too  aggressive,  perhaps, 
quick-tempered  and  willing  to  go  rather  more  than  half-way  to 
meet  trouble.  He  was  a  regular  gamecock,  and  after  his  true 
character  as  a  fighter  became  known  he  had  little  difficulty 
in  asserting  his  authority.  Captain  Boyce  held  office  for  about 
twelve  years,  and  though  he  had  numerous  chances  he  never 
had  to  actually  kill  any  one. 

Either  in  1860  or  1861  I.  C.  Lord  was  elected  city  marshal 
after  a  rather  heated  and  exciting  campaign.  Had  Mr.  Lord 
known  what  he  had  to  encounter  before  he  got  through,  it  is 
doubtful  if  he  would  not  have  quit  the  race  before  he  started  it. 
His  term  of  office  extended  through  the  four  years  of  the  war 
and  through  three  or  four  years  after  the  war,  during  the  be- 
ginning of  the  reconstruction  period.  The  latter  part  of  his 
incumbency  was  never  dull  nor  unexciting  for  a  moment.  There 
was  always  something  doing  night  and  day. 

That  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  when  it  is  remembered  that 
Houston  at  that  time  had  something  of  rather  worse  than  a 
mixed  population.  There  were  returned  Confederate  soldiers 
out  of  employment,  tough  Federal  soldiers,  gamblers,  cut-throats, 
thugs  and  bad  men  of  every  description,  while,  worse  than  all 
else  combined,  there  were  thousands  of  newly-freed,  ignorant 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 45 

and  idle  negroes  who  were  completely  under  the  control  of  de- 
signing carpetbaggers,  who  were  constantly  putting  them  up 
to  do  something  to  enrage  the  white  men.  Slung-shooting 
and  highway  robberies  were  of  almost  nightly  occurrence, 
and  every  man  carried  his  life  in  his  own  hands  and  knew 
that  he  did  so. 

To  contend  with  conditions  such  as  these,  Marshal  Lord  had 
only  four  or  five  policemen,  who  were  expected  to  look  after 
the  whole  city  night  and  day.  However,  there  was  one  thing 
that  saved  the  officers  much  trouble.  Each  citizen  knew  that 
he  was  expected  to  take  care  of  himself,  and  did  so. 

Perhaps  the  presence  of  Davis'  regiment  here  did  more  to 
cause  trouble  than  anything  else.  This  was  a  notorious  Federal 
regiment  commanded  by  E.  J.  Davis,  afterward  reconstruction 
governor  of  the  State.  It  was  called  a  "Texas  regiment,"  and 
was  made  up  of  deserters  from  the  Confederate  army,  Mexi- 
cans, negroes,  thugs  and  a  generally  undesirable  element  of 
society.  They  had  not  made  camp  here  a  week  before  robberies 
and  knockdowns  began  to  occur. 

Finally  there  were  dead  soldiers  found  once  or  twice  each 
week  on  the  back  streets,  and  as  these  dead  soldiers  had  hand- 
kerchiefs tied  over  their  faces  and  slung-shots  tied  to  their 
wrists,  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess  why  they  had  died.  No  one 
ever  knew  the  details  of  their  taking  off,  for  the  surviving 
actors  were  not  anxious  to  brag  about  their  share  in  it,  since 
it  was  an  easy  thing  for  the  Federal  authorities  to  claim  that 
the  affair  was  a  murder  pure  and  simple,  and  that  the  robbery 
features  had  been  introduced  by  the  slayer,  after  the  death, 
in  order  to  make  it  appear  justifiable.  There  was  practically 
martial  law  here  then,  and  to  get  in  the  hands  of  the  Federal 
military  authorities  was  a  very  serious  matter. 

To  show  how  severe  the  military  authorities  were  the  follow- 
ing instance  is  given:  One  of  the  Houston  policemen  was  shot 
at  by  a  drunken  Federal  soldier,  whom  the  policeman  tried  to 
arrest  for  trying  to  kick  in  the  door  of  a  millinery  establishment 
on  Main  Street.  To  protect  himself,  the  policeman  was  forced 
to  shoot  the  soldier.  He  did  not  kill  him,  but  he  might  as  well 
have  done  so,  for  he  was  arrested,  thrown  in  the  guardhouse 
and  had  a  terrible  time  before  he  was  released.  Finally,  after 
several  of  the  lawbreakers  had  been  killed  by  the  citizens,  they 
concluded  that  the  business  was  too  unhealthy  and  quit  it. 

But  the  marshal  and  police  force  had  troubles  of  their  own 
in  the  way  of  keeping  the  disorderly  negroes  in  line.  There 
were,  as  already  stated,  a  number  of  trifling,  irresponsible  white 
politicians  here  who  were  constantly  stirring  the  negroes  up  and 
causing  them  to  make  bad  breaks.  They  organized  what  was 


46 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

called  "The  Loyal  Legion,"  a  secret  political  party,  composed 
mainly  of  carpet  bag  white  men  and  trifling  negroes.  The 
white  men  always  kept  in  the  background  but  they  shoved  the 
negroes  forward,  with  the  result  that  when  any  killing  was  neces- 
sary a  negro  furnished  the  victim. 

One  morning  in  the  early  sixties,  a  negro  preacher  and  fifty 
or  more  negroes  went  to  the  city  jail  with  the  announced  in- 
tention of  taking  a  negro  out  of  jail  and  lynching  him,  because 
he  was  a  democratic  negro  and  because  he  had  shot  another 
negro  who  had  tried  to  assassinate  him  the  night  before.  Mar- 
shal Lord  attempted  to  argue  with  them,  but  the  preacher  put 
an  end  to  all  talk  by  slipping  up  behind  the  marshal  and  trying 
to  blow  his  brains  out.  Fortunately,  some  one  knocked  the  pis- 
tol aside  and  the  marshal  escaped  with  no  further  damage  than 
the  loss  of  his  hair  on  one  side  of  his  head. 

Alex  Erichsen  and  Martin  Ravell,  two  of  the  marshal's  force, 
were  there  and  without  hesitation  opened  fire  on  the  negroes, 
who  attempted  to  rush  the  marshal.  There  was  a  quick  volley 
and  when  the  smoke  cleared  away  there  were  several  dead 
negroes  on  the  ground.  The  preacher  escaped  for  a  moment, 
but  was  killed  by  Erichsen  a  few  minutes  after. 

That  incident  is  given  here  just  to  show  what  a  strenuous 
time  the  "force"  had  in  those  days. 

In  1868  Governor  Davis  turned  Marshal  Lord  out  of  office  and 
appointed  Captain  A.  K.  Taylor  marshal.  Captain  Taylor,  as 
all  old  Houstonians  know,  was  an  elegant  gentleman.  He  took 
possession  of  the  office,  but  within  a  few  weeks  he  became  so 
disgusted  with  his  surroundings  that  he  sent  in  his  resignation 
and  retired  to  private  life.  The  situation  was  too  tough  for  him. 

The  governor  then  appointed  Captain  M.  S.  Davis  to  the  place. 
He  was  a  former  army  officer  and  a  fair  man,  so  he  soon  made 
friends  with  the  people  and  never  had  serious  trouble  during 
his  tenure  of  office. 

The  Democrats  having  secured  control  of  the  state  in  the 
November  election  in  1873,  the  charter  of  Houston  was  amended 
in  January,  1874,  by  the  terms  of  which  the  governor  was  given 
the  authority  to  appoint  all  city  officials,  an  authority  he  used 
at  once  by  kicking  out  all  the  Republicans  and  appointing  rep- 
resentative men  to  the  offices. 

By  a  singular  oversight,  no  provision  was  made  in  the  new 
charter  for  a  city  marshal.  That  complicated  things  for  a  while, 
but  the  problem  was  solved  by  Major  S.  S.  Ashe,  who  was  sheriff 
at  that  time.  He  made  Henry  Thompson  nominally  city  mar- 
shal and  gave  him  twelve  or  more  deputy  sheriffs  to  act  as 
policemen  until  the  defect  in  the  charter  could  be  remedied. 
When  everything  was  put  in  shape  an  election  was  held  and 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 47 

Henry  Thompson  was  elected  city  marshal  and  made  one  of  the 
best  the  city  has  ever  had. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  Democrats  getting  in  power 
settled  the  negro  question,  and  that  Marshal  Thompson  and  his 
officers  had  an  easy  time.  On  the  contrary,  their  defeat  ap- 
peared to  make  the  negroes  worse  than  ever,  though  they 
worked  more  secretly  and  acted  more  under  cover. 

After  Marshal  Thompson  retired  Alex  Erichsen  was  elected 
and  held  office  for  a  year  or  two.  Erichsen  was  one  of  the 
coolest  and  bravest  men  that  ever  lived.  He  was  absolutely 
fearless,  but  he  had  one  fatal  defect.  He  had  too  much  per- 
sonality to  make  a  perfect  officer.  By  that  is  meant  that  he 
could  never  realize  that  he  was  an  officer  first  and  Alex  Erich- 
sen  next.  If  a  drunken  prisoner  swore  at  him  he  took  the  thing 
as  a  personal  insult  and  resented  it  as  such.  This  defect  in 
his  character  led  to  a  bloody  encounter  between  him  and  a 
prominent  gambler,  in  which  both  came  near  losing  their  lives. 
He  kept  perfect  discipline  and  was  absolutely  honest,  so  that 
on  the  whole  he  made  a  good  officer,  far  above  the  average, 
if  not  a  perfect  one. 

After  Erichsen  retired  there  were  rapid  and  frequent  changes 
in  the  office  of  city  marshal.  Among  those  who  filled  the  office 
were  John  Morris,  who  was  killed  some  years  ago.  He  was  a 
regular  bulldog  kind  of  a  fellow.  He  carried  things  with  a  strong 
hand,  would  stand  no  interference  and  did  just  what  he  pleased. 
He  was  game  all  the  way  through,  and  would  go  out  of  his  way 
to  get  into  a  difficulty  rather  than  try  to  avoid  one.  He  was  a 
good  officer,  though,  and  made  a  fine  marshal.  He  was  suc- 
ceeded by  Gus  Railey,  who  in  turn  was  succeeded  by  Charley 
Wichman. 

Over  in  the  police  office  on  Preston  and  Caroline  is  a  book, 
yellow  with  age  and  dingy  with  dirt  and  dust.  This  old  book 
is  marked  on  its  cover,  "Time  Book."  Its  first  entry  is  dated 
1882  and  is  made  up  of  a  record  of  the  police  department  of 
that  time.  Charles  Wichman  was  "chief  of  police,"  for  the  title 
had  been  changed  from  "marshal;"  W.  Glass  was  deputy  chief. 
W.  H.  Smith  and  P.  W.  McCutchin  were  the  day  force,  while 
B.  F.  Archer,  Jack  White,  James  Daily  and  Nat  Davis  were  the 
night  force.  It  is  believed  that  not  one  of  the  men  named  in 
the  foregoing  is  alive  today. 

.  It  is  tp  be  regretted  that  the  keepers  of  this  old  book  have 
seen  fit  to  abbreviate  all  the  entries  instead  of  filling  out  the 
items,  have  been  content  to  make  only  the  briefest  mention  of 
facts  that  had  about  them  material  for  most  interesting  stories. 

On  November  1,  1885,  an  entry  chronicles  the  appointment  of 
the  first  mounted  officers.  They  were  J.  E.  Jemison  and  George 


48 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Penticost.    The  entry  refers  to  them  as   "cow   catchers." 

W.  W.  Glass  resigned  February  19,  1886.  J.  Fitzgerald  was 
clerk  June  1,  1886.  Alex  Erichson  was  again  chief  of  police  in 
1892  and  B.  W.  McCarthy  was  clerk  at  the  same  time. 

James  H.  Pruett  was  chief  and  A.  R.  Anderson  deputy  in  1894. 

Under  date  March  17,  1882,  is  recorded:  "Officer  Richard 
Snow  killed  in  the  Fifth  ward."  That  is  all.  No  mention  is 
made  of  who  killed  him  nor  of  why  he  kiled  him. 

February  8,  1886,  the  following  entry  is  made:  "Henry  Wil- 
liams killed  by  Kyle  Terry  at  Market  square." 

"March  14,  1891,  J.  E.  Fenn  was  killed  by  Henry  McGee." 

Under  date  of  September  17,  1893,  is  recorded  the  accidental 
killing  of  Officer  Pat  Walsh,  who  dropped  his  pistol  when  getting 
off  a  street  car,  it  being  discharged  and  inflicting  a  fatal  wound 
on  the  officer. 

One  of  the  greatest  tragedies  that  has  ever  occurred  in  police 
circles  here  is  discussed  with  a  mere  statement  of  facts,  under 
date  July  28,  1901.  W.  A.  Weiss,  an  officer  was  shot  and  killed 
by  J.  T.  Vaughn,  who  was,  in  turn,  shot  and  killed  by  another 
officer  a  few  minutes  later.  This  case  created  immense  excite- 
ment at  the  time. 

So  far  as  excitement  is  concerned,  this  case  was  overshadowed 
by  one  that  is  recorded  in  the  old  book  under  date  December 
11,  1901.  As  usual  only  a  few  lines,  giving  merely  a  statement 
of  facts,  is  the  record.  Sid  Preacher  shot  and  killed  J.  C.  James, 
a  policeman,  with  a  shotgun.  After  killing  James,  Preacher 
whirled  and  killed  Policeman  Herman  Youngst.  Just  as  Preach- 
er started  to  go  away  another  policeman  arrived  on  the  scene 
and  shot  Preacher  dead. 

These  extracts  are  given  to  illustrate  the  fact  that  the  path- 
way of  the  peace  officer  is  not  strewn  with  roses  by  any  means. 

Of  course,  it  is  not  necessary  to  review  the  history  of  the 
department  during  recent  years,  for  all  are  familiar  with  it. 


FRANK    LE    MOTT'S   ROMANCE. 

I   KNOW   exactly   how   a  fellow   feels   after   he   has   entered 
blindly  into  a  dark  conspiracy  and  agreed  to  do  the  will 
of  a  beautiful  wman  for  no  other  reason  than   that  she 
was  a  young  and  beautiful  woman." 

That  was  the  way  Frank  Le  Mott  of  Galveston  began  what 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  best  stories  I  ever  heard  him  tell. 
There  was  quite  a  crowd  of  us  out  at  the  Breakers  bathhouse 
at  Galveston,  and  everybody  moved  closer  to  hear  the  story 
we  knew  was  coming. 

"Two  weeks  ago,"  Le  Mott  continued,  "I  had  an  adventure, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 49 

not  four  blocks  from  this  very  place,  that  fairly  took  my  breath 
away.  But  it  started  downtown  and  was  two  or  three  days 
culminating. 

"Monday  afternoon  I  was  standing  on  the  corner  of  Tre- 
mont  and  Market  when  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  prom- 
inent ladies  in  the  city  drove  by.  Just  as  she  was  opposite 
where  I  was  standing  she  bowed  and  smiled.  I  thought,  of 
course,  that  she  was  bowing  to  some  acquaintance  behind  me 
and  took  no  notice  of  it.  She  drove  down  the  street  and  when 
she  returned  she  repeated  the  bow  and  smiled  so  sweetly  that 
there  was  no  mistaking  that  it  was  all  meant  for  me,  and  in  a 
moment  I  was  regularly  sweeping  the  sidewalk  with  my  hat. 
The  next  evening  the  same  thing  was  repeated  and  when  she 
came  back  she  ordered  her  driver  to  come  near  the  curb  and 
beckoned  for  me  to  come  to  her." 

At  this  point  of  the  story  a  little  fellow  named  Smith,  which 
was  really  his  name,  butted  in.  He  was  so  excited  that  he  could 
scarcely  talk.  "I'll  bet  you  a  thousand  dollars  to  one  I  can 
call  her  name,"  he  said.  "Don't  be  afraid,  Frank,  I  won't  give 
you  away,  but  if  you  will  come  to  one  side  I'll  whisper  it  to  you 
and  you'll  see  I'm  right." 

Le  Mott  paid  no  attention  to  Smith,  but  went  on  with  his  story. 
"When  I  got  near  the  carriage  the  lady  leaned  out,  and  calling 
me  by  my  name,  asked  me  if  she  could  trust  me.  You  bet  I 
told  her  she  could,  and  that  I  would  willingly  die  jto  be  ipf 
service  to  her.  She  told  me  not  to  be  rash  in  making  extrava- 
gant promises,  because  she  was  going  to  hold  me  to  any  promise 
I  might  make.  Then  she  drove  away  after  asking  me  to  be  at 
the  same  place  the  next  afternoon  at  5  o'clock." 

Here  Smith  butted  in  again,  swearing  that  he  knew  the  lady 
and  that  he  would  bet  any  one  present  a  thousand  dollars  and 
leave  it  to  Le  Mott  to  say  if  he  was  wrong  or  not.  He  also 
repeated  his  assurance  to  Le  Mott  that  he  need  not  fear  his  di- 
vulging the  name.  Le  Mott  did  not  notice  the  interruption  fur- 
ther than  to  'remain  silent  until  we  could  shut  Smith  off,  then 
he  continued: 

"The  next  afternoon  I  was  on  the  spot  an  hour  ahead  of  time. 
Promptly  at  5  that  carriage  drove  up  and  the  lady,  calling  me 
to  her,  managed  to  slip  me  a  dainty  little  note,  which  I  slipped 
into  my  pocket."  Here  Smith  became  terribly  excited  and 
insisted  on  whispering  the  lady's  name  in  Le  Mott's  ear,  but 
we  interfered  and  got  him  quiet  after  some  trouble. 

"She  then  drove  away,  after  giving  me  a  sweet  smile,  and  I 
hastened  to  a  secluded  place  where  I  could  read  that  note.    It " 
was  very  short  and  was  simply  this:     'Meet  me  tomorrow  after- 
noon on  the  boulevard  near  the  foot  of  Tremont  Street  at  as 


50 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

near  4  o'clock  as  possible.'    There  was  no  address  nor  signa- 
ture. 

"That  night  I  could  scarcely  close  my  eyes  and  time  passed 
terribly  slow.  The  next  afternoon  I  was  again  away  ahead  of 
time  and  walked  up  and  down  the  boulevard  until  I  almost 
knew  every  brick  in  it.  Finally  I  saw  her  carriage  drive  up 
at  the  foot  of  Tremont  and  she  got  out  and  came  'toward  me. 
I  walked  forward  to  meet  her,  but  when  she  drew  near  I  was 
completely  taken  off  my  feet,  for  instead  of  looking  at  me  she 
looked  past  me  and  sailed  by  as  coldly  as  an  iceberg,  without^ 
ever,  apparently,  knowing  I  was  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  She 
cut  me  dead.  I  felt  like  a  fool  and,  turning  to  see  what  could 
have  caused  her  to  act  that  way,  I  found  the  explanation,  and 
it  made  my  blood  run  cold,  too,  for  not  fifty  feet  behind  me 
was  "her  husband,  who  had  been  following  me."-  Here  Smith 
began  to  swear  that  now  he  knew  he  was  right  and  could  call 
the  lady's  name. 

Le  Mott  looked  at  him  reproachfully  and  he  went  on  with 
his  story. 

"The  lady  advanced  to  meet  her  husband,  but  instead  of  the 
scene  I  expected  to  see  they  met  in  the  most  friendly  way,  stood 
chatting  for  a  few  moments  and  then  she  turned  and  together 
they  walked  to  where  the  carriage  was  standing.  When  they 
got  there  he  got  in  and,  smiling  at  her,  drove  away  to  town. 
She  waited  until  he  was  a  few  blocks  away  and  then  she  came 
toward  me,  smiling  and  holding  out  both  hands  in  the  most 
friendly  way.  I  admit  I  was  mystified  and  could  make  neither 
heads  nor  tails  of  the  whole  thing,  but  having  gone  that  far,  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  see  the  whole  thing  through. 

"She  led  me  up  the  boulevard  for  two  or  three  blocks  and 
then  turned  down  a  side  street.  I  am  not  going  to  say  where 
we  went,  but  she  led  me  to  an  elegant  residence  and  taking  a 
key  from  her  satchel  she  unlocked  the  door  and  invited  me  in." 

Here  we  had  almost  to  hold  Smith  to  keep  him  from  whisper- 
ing to  Le  Mott  the  location  of  that  house.  He  knew  it  exactly 
and  could,  with  Le  Mott's  permission,  lead  the  crowd  there  in 
a  few  minutes. 

"The  house  seemed  absolutely  vacant,"  continued  Le  Mott. 
"We  passed  through  a  hall  and  entered  an  elegantly  furnished 
bedroom.  Here  for  the  first  time  her  courage  seemed  to  desert 
her  and  she  realized  what  she  was  doing.  She  wanted  me  to 
leave  the  room  and  house  at  once.  She  seemed  so  scared  and 
anxious  that  she  began  to  get  me  rattled,  but  I  had  no  idea  of 
giving  up  after  having  gone  that  far.  I  begged  her  to  calm 
herself  and  tell  me  what  she  wanted  me  to  do  for  her.  Instead 
of  getting  quieter  she  began  to  weep  and  cry  out  against  her- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 51 

self  for  having  acted  so  imprudently  with  an  entire  stranger. 
'My  husband  would  kill  me  and  you  too,'  she  said,  'if  he  caught 
us  here  alone,  and  I  have  an  idea  that  he  suspects  me  and  is 
watching.' 

"All  that  did  not  make  me  feel  any  too  comfortable,  but  to 
tell  the  truth  I  would  have  rather  had  dealings  with  the  hus- 
band just  then  than  with  the  hysterical  woman  in  a  strange 
house. 

"Finally  I  got  her  quieted  enough  to  sit  down  and  talk  sen- 
sibly and  she  was  just  beginning  to  tell  me  her  story — " 

Here  Smith  butted  in  with  the  declaration  that  he  was  going 
to  name  both  the  husband  and  woman,  whether  Le  Mott  liked 
it  or  not. 

"Wait  until  I  finish,  Smith,"  said  Le  Mott,  "and  then  if  you 
know  you  may  tell."  That  was  the  only  time  he  had  noticed 
Smith  at  all. 

"She  had  just  begun  to  tell  me  how  she  feared  the  vengeance 
of  her  husband,  when  there  was  a  terrible  crash  right  back  of 
me  and — "  Here  Le  Mott  paused  a  long  time  and  looked  steadily 
at  Smith.  "And  then  I  woke  up,  for  a  window  had  fallen  at 
the  head  of  my  bed  and  ruined  my  afternoon  nap." 

At  this  unexpected  conclusion  of  the  story,  Smith  subsided. 
We  were  all  taken  in,  but  Smith  was  obliterated  completely. 

*  *  * 

A  TRUE  CAT  STORY. 

I  SEE  The  Chronicle  is  publishing  a  regular  series  of  animal 
stories,  so  I  conclude  that  on"e  that  is  absolutely  truthful 
in  every  detail  will  be  acceptable.  My  story  is  about  my 
personal  experience  with  two  cats  that  for  several  nights  hand- 
running  destroyed  not  only  my  sleep  but  the  ease  and  comfort 
of  my  neighbors  for  two  blocks  around  me.  Those  were,  in 
appearance,  only  ordinary  cats,  but  when  it  came  to  loud  talking 
and  the  use  of  profane  language,  they  had  all  other  cats  I  have 
ever  known  backed  clear  off  the  boards.  They  seemed  abso- 
lutely oblivious  to  outside  interference  when  they  started  a  row, 
and  old  shoes,  bootjacks,  empty  bottles  and  such  things  hurled 
at  them  seemed  only  to  add  to  their  sense  of  importance  and 
they  received  them  very  much  as  a  chorus  girl  receives  a  bou- 
quet when  thrown  on  the  stage  to  her;  with  only  a  moment's 
silence,  a  side-step  and  a  smile.  I  know,  because  I  bombarded 
those  cats  until  I  gave  up  in  absolute  despair. 

The  absolute  depravity  and  meanness  of  those  two  cats  may 
be  seen  from  the  fact  that  neither  belonged  in  my  yard,  though 
both  made  free  use  of  it  for  their  meetings  and  subsequent 
battles.  Often  I  have  heard  the  big  black  fellow  crying  out, 


52 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"Maria,  Maria,  come  over  in  my  yard!"  thus  showing  that  he 
laid  claim  to  ownership  of  the  place.  But  everybody  has  had 
the  same  experience  with  cats  that  I  have  outlined  in  the  fore- 
going, but  what  everybody  has  not  had  is  the  extreme  delight 
that  I  had  in  turning  the  table  on  the  cats  and  giving  them 
an  experience  of  their  own  and  furnishing  them  a  new  sensation. 

One  bright,  moonlit  night  I  was  awakened  by  the  two  cats 
who  had  gotten  under  my  bedroom  window  and  were  using  the 
most  outrageous  language  to  each  other,  in  tones  that  would 
almost  wake  the  dead.  I  searched  the  room  for  something  to 
drop  on  them,  for  they  were  directly  under  the  window  and  I 
could  not  have  missed  them.  While  I  was  making  a  fruitless 
search  and  wishing  for  a  stick  of  dynamite,  it  occurred  to  me 
that  my  boy  had  purchased  some  large  firecrackers  the  day 
before  and  had  some  left  over.  I  went  to  his  room  and  was 
fortunate  enough  to  find  one.  It  was  not  the  great  cannon 
cracker,  but  was  the  next  size  and  the  very  thing  I  wanted. 
I  lit  a  cigarette  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  cats  by  lighting  a  match 
when  I  got  ready  to  fire  my  cracker,  pinched  off  the  fuse,  stuck 
it  to  the  light  and  dropped  it.  I  will  say  here  that  if  any 
gunner  in  the  army  or  navy  could  cut  a  fuse  as  accurately  as 
I  cut  that  one,  his  fortune  would  be  made.  The  cats  were  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  animated  discussion  and  were  just  on  the 
verge  of.  blows.  As  I  turned  loose  the  firecracker  I  heard  one 
say  to  the  other:  "You  liar,  you!" 

Then  the  firecracker  reached  a  point  about  four  inches  from 
the  ground,  directly  between  them,  and  exploded.  I  can't 
describe  what  took  place.  Each  cat  thought  the  other  had  shot 
at  him.  There  was  no  scramble  nor  anything  like  that.  There 
was  plenty  of  action,  but  it  resembled  lightning  more  than 
anything  else.  There  was  a  high  board  fence  about  ten  feet 
behind  one  of  the  cats.  He  simply  turned  a  back  handspring, 
barely  touched  the  top  of  the  fence  and  was  half  a  block  up 
the  street  before  the  flash  from  the  firecracker  had  died  out. 
The  other  fellow  went  in  the  opposite  direction  and  disappeared 
behind  the  stable.  I  have  seen  in  scientific  journals  pictures 
of  flying  bullets  moving  2000  feet  a  second  taken  by  instan- 
taneous photography.  They  looked  like  they  were  standing 
still.  I  am  willing  to  make  a  small  wager  that  if  one  of  those 
scientists  had  had  his  photographic  machine  trained  on  those 
two  cats  that  night  all  he  would  have  gotten  would  have  been 
two  long  streaks. 

While  I  was  nearly  choked  with  laughter  and  also  lost  in 
admiration  over  the  record  speed  of  the  two  cats,  one  of  them 
came  sneaking  out  from  behind  the  stable.  He  had  evidently 
thought  the  matter  over  and,  finding  he  had  not  been  hit  by 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 53 

the  pistol  fired  directly  in  his  face  by  the  other  cat,  he  had 
gotten  his  "dander  up"  and,  securing  his  razor,  had  come  out 
looking  for  blood.  That  is  the  way  I  sized  the  situation  up. 
He  advanced  very  cautiously,  without  saying  a  word.  I  longed 
for  another  firecracker.  I  waited  until  he  got  nearly  to  the 
fence  and,  having  nothing  else  to  throw,  I  dropped  my  cigarette 
down  just  behind  him.  Again  the  effect  was  magical.  He  did 
not  wait  for  the  explosion  of  the  bomb  he  thought  the  other 
cat  had  thrown  at  him  from  an  ambuscade.  He  saw  the  sparks 
from  the  scattered  burning  tobacco  and  moved  off  like  a  rocket. 
There  was  one  leap  of  ten  feet  to  the  top  of  the  fence  and  he 
was  gone. 

Now,  the  remarkable  thing  about  the  whole  circumstance  was 
that  neither  of  those  cats  opened  its  mouth  or  said  a  word 
after  the  first  shock.  All  their  energy  was  concentrated  in 
their  efforts  to  get  away  from  there  in  the  quickest  time  pos- 
sible. I  don't  know  how  they  ever  settled  the  matter  or  what 
explanations  they  made  to  each  other,  but  I  do  know  that  from 
that  time  on  nothing  on  earth  could  induce  either  of  those  cats 
to  come  in  my  yard  either  during  the  day  or  night.  The  mys- 
tery of  the  affair  was  too  much  for  them.  Had  I  thrown  a 
firecracker  down  on  only  one  of  them  he  would  have  known  it 
was  I  who  did  it  and  acted  accordingly.  But  the  introduction  of 
doubt  and  suspicion  into  the  problem,  which  made  each  one 
doubt  and  mistrust  the  other  and  suspect  him  of  having  attempted 
to  assassinate  him,  made  the  case  of  mystery  complete.  They 
dodged  me  and  they  evidently  dodged  each  other,  for  we  heard 
no  more  of  their  outrages.. 

+  *  * 

SJOLANDER   A   HERO. 

IT  has  been  my  good  fortune  to  have  known  several  writers 
of  note,  among  them  one  or  two  poets.  Strange  to  say 
these  latter  have  always  been  those  whose  friendship  I 
valued.  I  say  strange,  because  it  is  really  so,  for  aside  from 
their  personality  we  have  nothing  in  common.  My  taste  is 
so  depraved  that  I  think  that  the  fellow  who  raves  in  verse 
over  a  sunset,  or  a  moon-lit  night,  is  heading  towards  the  near- 
est asylum,  and  if  he  is  not  he  should  be  pointed  that  way.  I 
confess  that  I  enjoy  the  jingling  verses,  telling  of  breakfast 
foods  and  fine  soaps,  that  one  sees  in  the  street  cars,  much 
more  than  I  do  the  poems  that  others  rave  over. 

Now,  among  my  poet  friends  is  Sjolander,  the  sailor  poet. 
He  and  I  have  been  intimate  friends  for  about  30  years,  and  it 
is  a  fact  that  I  feel  proud  of.  I  have  enjoyed  his  stories,  skipped 
his  poetry  and  admired  the  man  thoroughly  and  honestly.  But 


54 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

for  his  extreme  modesty  he  would  be  one  of  the  most  talked 
of  men  of  today.  He  persists  in  keeping  in  the  background, 
however,  and  there  is  no  way  of  lugging  him  to  the  front. 

Now,  in  spite  of  our  intimacy  I  never  knew,  until  the  other 
day,  that  Sjolander  was  a  hero,  a  genuine  one,  too.  It  came 
out  accidentally.  We  were  talking  about  the  sea,  as  we  always 
do  when  we  get  together,  and  I  mentioned  a  wreck  that  occurred 
just  off  Galveston  in  the  early  eighties.  It  was  before  the 
jetties  were  built  and  Galveston  Island  terminated  at  Fort 
Point.  The  inner  bar  was  located  just  beyond  where  quaran- 
tine station  is  now  located,  and  all  beyond  that  point  was  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico.  The  outer  bar  was  further  out  and  was  one  of 
the  worst  on  the  gulf  coast.  During  ordinary  rough  weather 
the  bar  was  so  rough  that  it  was  considered  unsafe  for  a  vessel 
to  attempt  to  cross  it. 

It  was  either  in  '83  or  '84  that  a  terrible  storm  occurred  off 
Galveston.  The  wind  came  from  the  southeast,  and  piled  up 
the  breakers  "mountain  high."  During  the  night  there  was  a 
fearful  blow,  and  at  daylight  next  morning  it  was  discovered 
that  a  large  ship  had  gone  down  and  that  her  crew  were  cling- 
ing to  the  masts.  She  was  located  a  mile  or  two  off  shore  and 
was  right  in  the  midst  of  the  breakers  that  would  soon  wash 
the  men  from  their  perilous  position  if  it  did  not  destroy  the 
masts  altogether.  There  was  no  life  saving  station,  equipped 
with  proper  boats  or  anything  of  that  kind.  The  men  must  be 
rescued  though.  The  Morgan  steamer,  Josephine,  was  in  port 
and  got  up  steam  to  go  out.  She  reached  a  point  not  far  from 
the  outer  bar  and  met  such  huge  breakers  that  she  was  forced 
to  abandon  the  attempt  and  turned  back  to  her  place  at  the 
wharf. 

When  it  was  found  that  the  Josephine  would  not,  or  could 
not  go  to  the  rescue,  one  of  the  bar  pilots  leaped  in  a  small 
sailboat  and  called  for  volunteers,  saying  that  he  would  save 
th.ose  men  or  share  their  fate.  Nine  men  sprang  in  the  boat  at 
once,  among  them  my  poet,  Sjolander.  That  crew  of  ten  braved 
the  fearful  bar,  passed  it,  went  to  the  stranded  vessel  and  after 
hours  of  heartbreaking  work  succeeded  in  rescuing  every  one 
of  the  men  clinging  in  the  masts.  The  return  trip,  in  the  little 
overloaded  vessel,  was  far  more  dangerous  than  the  outward 
trip.  The  captain  was  a  fine  sailor,  knew  just  what  to  do  and 
had  the  men  to  do  it,  so  they  made  the  trip  safely  and  got  back 
to  the  wharf  without  the  loss  of  a  single  man. 

Now,  I  knew  about  that  wreck  and  of  the  heroic  rescue,  but 
I  did  not  know  that  Sjolander  was  one  of  the  heroes.  The 
other  day  he  referred  to  it  casually,  mentioning  it  only  in  telling 
me  of  his  introduction  to  Texas,  he  having  arrived  on  an  in- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 55 

ward  bound  vessel  only  a  day  or  two  before.  When  I  asked 
him  if  he  knew  of  the  danger  before  he  started  he  laughed  at 
the  question  and  said  that  he  knew  as  well  as  an  experienced 
sailor  could  know  how  slim  the  chances  were  for  success. 
"But  I  would  have  gone  anywhere  that  any  other  man  would 
have  gone  at  that  time.  I  was  not  desperate  or  anything  of 
that  kind,  but  I  was  young  and  felt  my  oats.  I  felt  at  that  time 
that  I  could  do  anything  that  any  other  man  could  do,  and 
since  I  realized  that  something  must  be  done  quickly  to  save 
those  men,  I  jumped  in  that  boat  with  no  thought  of  anything 
else  than  the  fact  that  we  were  going  to  save  them." 
*  Strange  to  say,  the  Galveston  News  gave  only  a  brief  account 
of  the  daring  rescue  and  passed  it  off  as  if  it  had  been  only  an 
ordinary,  everyday  occurrence.  It  was  really  a  gallant  thing; 
one  that  only  those  familiar  with  the  dangers  of  the  sea  can 
appreciate  at  its  full  value.  Had  it  been  during  these  latter 
days  when  so  many  mock  heroes  are  getting  Carnegie  medals 
every  one  of  those  ten  heroes  would  have  been  decorated,  and 
what  is  far  more  to  the  point  they  would  have  honored  the 
medals  by  accepting  them  instead  of  the  medals  honoring  them. 
Of  all  the  ten,  I  believe  only  Sjolander  is  alive.  I  have  always 
had  a  warm  place  in  my  heart  for  him,  but  after  I  heard  his 
story  he  advanced  several  points  in  my  estimation,  if  that  be 
possible.  The  next  time  he  comes  to  town  I  am  going  to  get  a 
full  list  of  those  gallant  men  and  publish  it  so  as  to  do  their 
memory  some  tardy  justice. 


EARLY  SHOWS   IN    HOUSTON. 

WHETHER  the  war  was  responsible  for  it  or  not,  the  fact 
remains  that  for  several  years  after  its  close  society 
was  in  somewhat  of  a  chaotic  condition  and  "most 
any  old  thing  went,"  just  so  it  was  not  outside  the  law.  Men 
of  fine  social  standing  engaged  in  business  that  they  would 
shun  today,  not  because  there  is  anything  radically  wrong  with 
these  things,  but  because  they  are  now  in  the  hands  of  pro-' 
fessional  people  and  are  not  considered  just  the  things  for 
business  men  of  commercial  and  social  standing  to  engage  in. 
To  illustrate  what  I  mean  I  will  state  that  the  first  organized 
vaudeville  show  ever  in  Houston  was  organized  and  managed, 
not  by  a  professional  showman,  but  by  Ed  Bremond,  the  son  of 
the  great  railroad  builder  and  capitalist.  Just  why  Ed  ever 
thought  of  such  a  thing  no  one  knew,  but  he  did  think  of  it  and 
he  made  a  great  success  of  it,  too.  That  show  was  the  "Acad- 
emy of  Music"  and  was  one  of  the  most  popular  places  in  Hous- 


56 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

ton.  It  was  located  on  the  corner  of  Main  and  Prairie,  upstairs, 
and  was  crowded  every  night. 

The  Academy  proved  so  great  a  financial  success  that  Ed 
began  to  get  the  big  head  and  spoke  of  himself  as  an  "impres- 
sario."  He  had  looked  the  word  up  in  a  dictionary  and,  liking 
its  sound,  had  adopted  it.  There  was  a  very  large  lady,  inclined 
to  what  the  French  call  embonpoint,  who  could  sing  "Molly 
Darling,"  "Don't  You  Love  Me  Darling?"  and  songs  of  that 
description  in  the  most  entrancing  way.  She  had  a  complete 
name,  of  course,  but  all  the  young  fellows  knew  her  as  "Miss 
Joe"  and  spoke  of  her  in  that  way  so  often  that  her  last  name 
finally  became  lost  in  the  shuffle.  Ed  was  never  guilty  of  fall; 
ing  into  the  popular  way  of  the  boys,  but  always  referred  to 
Miss  Joe  as  the  "Charming  Cantatrice."  After  his  show  got  to 
making  lots  of  money  he  grew  more  ambitious  and  spoke  of 
Thuse  Donneland,  the  fiddler,  and  Charley  Finkelman,  the  piano 
player,  as  "virtuosos."  His  chorus  girls,  by  the  same  reason- 
ing, became  "artistes." 

Ed  had  one  man  in  his  company  who  afterward  became  fa- 
mous as  a  negro  delineator.  That  was  Milt  Barlow,  the  creator 
of  "Old  Black  Joe."  The  song  was  introduced  in  Houston  by 
.Barlow  and  he  afterward  became  famous  through  that  one  song 
alone. 

But  I  did  not  start  out  to  write  anything  about  Ed  and  his 
Academy  of  Music.  Mention  of  him  is  only  incidental.  What 
I  wanted  to  say  was  that  right  after  the  war  there  were  a  lot 
of  fellows  in  Houston  who  had  the  "initiative"  and  who  had 
the  promoter  talent  well  developed.  They  would  promote  any- 
thing from  a  cock-fight  to  grand  opera.  About  that  time  the 
father  of  a  young  gentleman  well  known  in  Houston  died  and 
left  him  a  pot  of  ready  money.  The  young  man  at  once  began 
looking  around  for  something  to  promote.  He  tried  a  cock- 
fight, with  only  partially  satisfactory  results.  Then  he  staged 
a  crazy,  stage-struck  fellow  who  gave  one  of  the  most  outrage- 
ously ridiculous  performances  ever  witnessed.  The  absurdity  of 
the  whole  thing  advertised  it  extensively  and  a  repetition  was 
*  demanded  by  the  public.  I  nor  any  one  else  who  witnessed  it  will 
ever  forget  it.  The  opera  house  (Perkins  Hall)  was  crowded 
from  gallery  to  pit  with  a  male  audience  at  $1  per.  From  a 
financial  point  it  was  a  grand  success  and  before  the  close  of 
the  performance  everybody  there  felt  that  he  had  his  full  dol- 
lar's worth.  It  was  a  one-man  show.  The  curtain  rose  to  slow 
music  and  the  great  actor  entered.  He  was  going  to  give  a 
Shakespearean  reading.  He  came  on  the  stage  in  a  tight-fitting 
union  suit  which  fitted  him  as  though  he  had  been  melted  and 
poured  into  it.  He  wore  high  laced  shoes  and  had  an  immense 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 57 

sword  buqkled  around  his  waist.  The  sword  was  very  long 
and  kept  constantly  getting  between  his  legs.  The  audience 
howled  when  he  came  on  and  he,  taking  it  for  applause,  at- 
tempted to  bow  his  thanks  and  came  near  falling  down.  The 
cheers  continued,  but  had  no  effect  on  him,  for  he  began  his 
recitation  at  once.  No  one  could  hear  a  word  he  said,  but  that 
made  no  difference.  He  spoke  for  several  minutes  and  then 
bowed  himself  off  the  stage.  The  audience  was  absolutely  wild 
with  delight  by  now.  Then  the  great  actor  appeared  again  and 
began  another  piece.  That  continued  for  half  an  hour,  when  the 
promoter  got  on  the  stage  and  announced  that  "Senior  De 
Pompeno"  would  next  give  an  exhibition  of  living  statuary.  A 
barrel  was  placed  in  the  center  of  the  stage  and  the  actor  was 
led  forth  and  mounted  it. 

He  raised  his  hand  for  silence  and  when  he  could  make  him- 
self heard  announced  that  his  first  production  would  be  "Ajax 
Defying  the  Lightning."  With  that  he  threw  himself  back,  ele- 
vated his  fists  and  shook  them  at  the  far  gallery.  The  audience 
howled  with  delight.  Then  he  gave  "Faith,  Hope  and  Charity." 
It  was  all  ridiculously  grand.  After  four  or  five  renditions  he 
announced  that  he  would  produce  his  masterpiece,  "The  Prayer." 
With  that  he  threw  back  his  head,  raised  hjs  arms  and  began 
the  most  strenuous  efforts  to  run  while  still  on  the  barrel.  The 
truth  was  that  when  he  threw  back  his  tiead  he  discovered 
seated  on  a  beam  just  above  him  an  old  negro  woman  armed 
with  a  big  tub  of  water  which  she  was  to  empty  on  him  at  the 
close  of  the  performance.  His  untimely  discovery  of  her  plot 
unnerved  Fanny,  for  that  was  her  name,  and  in  her  haste  to 
empty  the  tub  she  lost  her  balance  and  she,  tub  and  all  came 
crashing  down  on  the  actor.  It  was  heart  breaking  to  have  so 
many  things  to  laugh  at  at  once,  and  came  near  choking  half 
the  audience.  Of  course,  when  he  tried  to  run  he  simply  kicked 
the  barrel  backward  without  advancing  himself  the  least  bit, 
so  that  when  Fanny  landed  she  came  down  fairly  on  top  of  him 
and  the  barrel.  Fortunately  no  one  was  injured.  That  was  the 
greatest  show  that  was  ever  pulled  off  in  Houston  and  was 
talked  about  for  weeks  afterward. 

*      *  *  * 

HOW  THE   RAILROADS  CAME. 

THE  first  spade  ever  stuck  in  the  earth  for  the  construc- 
tion of  a  railroad  in  Texas  was  at  Harrisburg  away  back 
yonder,  as  early  as  1840.    That  was  for  the  construc- 
tion of  the  Harrisburg  and  Brazos   Railroad,  a  line  that  was 
never  built,  at  least  not  under  that  name. 

Some  grading  was  done,  some  ties  were  placed,  but  no  iron  was 
ever  laid  and  the  enterprise  was  abandoned  soon  after  it  began. 


58  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

For  11  years  the  people  of  Harrisburg  and  Houston  talked  rail- 
road, but  they  seemed  to  have  wasted  all  their  energy  in  talk, 
for  they  did  nothing  else. 

However,  in  1851  the  line,  which  is  now  known  as  the  Galves- 
ton,  Harrisburg  and  San  Antonio,  was  actually  begun  at  Harris- 
burg,  and  construction  was  pushed  so  vigorously  that  in  nine 
years  80  miles  of  road  was  actually  constructed.  In  this  day 
of  rapid  transportation,  when  all  the  material  for  railroad  con- 
struction can  be  obtained  almost  at  a  moment's  notice,  it  seems 
strange  to  hear  that  it  took  nine  years  to  build  a  crudely  con- 
structed line  80  miles. 

That  was  rather  rapid  work  for  the  early  days,  however,  for 
all  the  material,  except  for  ties,  had  to  be  brought  in  sailing 
ships  from  Boston,  New  York  or  other  ports  on  the  Atlantic, 
unloaded  at  Galveston  and  then  brought  up  the  bayou  in  steam- 
boats. 

There  were  many  difficulties  to  be  overcome  in  the  way  of 
transportation  and  equally  as  great  ones  in  obtaining  money 
or  credit  to  pay  for  construction.  Just  as  the  Harrisburg  road 
got  under  good  headway,  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  got  into 
the  game.  The  first  shovel  of  dirt  for  this  road  was  thrown  by 
that  great  railroad  genius,  Paul  Bremond,  in  1853.  When  he 
threw  up  that  dirt  he  turned  up  more  trouble  for  himself  than 
generally  falls  to  the  lot  of  one  man. 

Of  course,  he  did  not  know  this,  but  I  am  convinced  that 
had  he  done  so  it  would  have  made  not  the  slightest  change  in 
his  plans.  His  faith  in  himself  and  his  confidence  in  his  ability 
to  accomplish  whatever  he  started  out  to  do,  was  something 
sublime.  When  it  came  to  energy  he  had  any  engine  on  his 
road  faded  to  a  standstill.  He  was  a  wonderful  man,  and  he 
did  not  hesitate,  at  times,  to  attempt  the  apparently  impossible. 

When  his  first  contractor  got  cold  feet  and  threw  up  his  job, 
Mr.  Bremond  promptly  undertook  to  carry  out  the  contract  to 
build  the  road  himself.  There  is  where  his  troubles  began. 

The  company  had  money  enough  to  build  two  miles  of  road 
and  to  buy  an  engine.  Then  the  unlooked-for  and  unproyided- 
for  element  of  credit  bobbed  up  and  scared  all  the  other  stock- 
holders, except  Mr.  Bremond,  off  the  track* 

He  stayed  and  went  straight  ahead  just  as  if  he  had  millions 
behind  him.  He  had  faith,  the  kind  that  is  spelled  with  a  big 
F,  but  the  difficulty  was  to  pay  off  several  hundred  clamoring 
Irishmen  with  some  of  his  faith.  He  did  not  actually  perform 
that  miracle,  but  he  came  as  near  doing  so  as  anybody  could. 

He  was  a  very  honest  and  square  man  himself  and  the  Irish- 
men, while  they  cursed  and  hunted  for  him  everywhere*  knew 
that  they  would  be  paid  sometime.  They  made  life  a  burden 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 59 

for  him,  however.  Of  course,  he  hid  out  as  much  as  possible  and 
was  not  given  to  parading  up  and  down  Main  Street  in  those 
days,  but  while  this  modesty  on  his  part  saved  him  some 
trouble,  it  did  not  save  him  all  the  time  and  he  had  some  re- 
markable experiences. 

On  one  occasion  several  hundred  of  the  Irishmen  went  in  a 
body  to  his  residence.  They  yelled  and  hooted  and  made  lots 
of  noise,  but  finally  contented  themselves  with  tearing  down 
his  fence  and  carrying  away  the  pieces.  Finally  they  got  tired 
of  making  demonstrations  against  him  and,  entering  into  the 
spirit  of  the  game,  they  backed  him  up  and  went  to  work. 

Mr.  Bremond  knew  that  when  the  road  reached  Hempstead 
it  would  begin  to  earn  money,  so  he  turned  all  his  great  energy 
towards  constructing  it  to  that  point  as  rapidly  as  possible.  It 
took  him  five  years  of  the  hardest  work  any  man  ever  had,  but 
he  accomplished  it  in  1858,  and  at  once  entered  on  a  period 
of  comparative  ease.  It  was  a  wonderful  performance  and 
not  one  man  in  10,000  could  have  done  it. 

In  two  years  more  the  road  was  completed  to  Milican  and,  the 
war  coming  on,  it  stuck  there.  In  the  meantime  the  Buffalo 
Bayou  and  Brazos  Railroad  had  built  into  Houston.  It  used  to 
come  down  San  Jacinto  Street  and  had  an  engine  house  and 
turntable  at  the  foot  of  that  street,  right  where  the  bridge 
is  now.  It  had  a  long  wooden  depot  at  Polk  Avenue  and  San 
Jacinto  Street,  where  all  the  cars  stopped,  but  the  locomotive 
would  come  down  to  San  Jacinto  to  turn  round  and  go  into  the 
engine  house. 

A  lot  of  New  Yorkers  backed  Abe  Gentry  up  and  he  began 
the  construction  of  the  road  to  New  Orleans.  This  road  had 
money  and  credit  too,  and  while  it  began  construction  later 
than  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  and  the  Buffalo  Bayou  and 
Brazos  roads,  when  the  war  broke  out  it  had  as  much  line  con- 
structed as  either  of  them,  and  had  trains  running  to  Orange. 

I  don't  suppose  there  ever  were  such  railroads  as  those  lead- 
ing out  of  Houston  became  by  the  second  and  third  years  of  the 
war.  Schedules  and  time-tables  became  farces.  The  trains 
came  and  went  a£  they  could,  and  spent  almost  as  much  time  off 
the  tracks  as  they  did  on  them.  I  remember  on  one  occasion 
pulling  out  of  Columbia  on  the  Buffalo  Bayou  and  Brazos  road, 
at  the  same  time  that  a  company  of  cavalry  left  there  for 
Houston. 

During  the  whole  day  we  were  never  out  of  sight  of  that 
company.  Sometimes  we  would  be  ahead  and  sometimes  they 
would  lead.  It  was  see-saw  all  day,  for  it  took  from  early  in 
the  morning  until  dark  to  make  the  trip  of  50  miles.  Finally, 
just  at  dark,  we  reached  Brays  Bayou  and  lost  sight  of  the  com- 


60 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

pany  there.     They  had  entered  the  woods,  ahead  of  us,  however. 

Before  the  close  of  the  war  all  the  railroads  except  the  Hous- 
ton and  Texas  Central  and  the  Galveston,  Houston  and  Hen- 
derson had  gone  out  of  commission  and  had  ceased  to  run  at 
all.  In  some  way  these  two  roads  were  kept  in  such  condition 
that  they  could  be  used,  but  that  was  all.  Using  them  was  not 
a  safe  thing  by  any  means.  They  crept  along  so  slowly  that 
while  wrecks  were  so  frequent  as  to  attract  no  attention,  it 
was  a  rare  thing  for  any  one  to  get  killed  or  even  hurt. 

If  full  justice  were  done  the  name  of  Mr.  Bremond  would  be 
perpetuated  by  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  road.  It  is  true 
there  is  one  of  the  principal  towns  on  the  line  named  after  him. 
It  is  true  he  received  loyal  support  and  assistance  from  W.  R. 
Baker,  M.  M.  Rice,  William  Van  Alstyne,  William  J.  Hutchins, 
Cornelius  Ennis  and  others,  but  theirs  was  money  help  and  soon 
gave  out.  The  real  credit  for  building  the  road  belongs  to  Paul 
Bremond,  for  he  did  what  others  could  or  would  not  do,  pulled 
off  his  coat  and  went  in  the  trenches  and,  figuratively,  on  the 
firing  line  of  railroad  construction  in  Texas. 

I  do  not  know  what  the  reason  for  doing  so  was,  but  in  those 
days  the  builders  of  locomotives  always  put  immense  smoke- 
stacks on  them.  The  smokestacks  were  funnel-shape  and  sev- 
eral feet  in  circumference  at  the  top.  The  locomotives  burned 
wood  and  every  few  miles  there  were  big  stacks  of  cordwood 
piled  alongside  the  track. 

There  was  no  such  thing  as  spark-arresters  and  every  time 
the  fireman  put  fresh  wood  in  the  box  the  passengers  got  the 
full  benefit  of  the  sparks,  cinders  and  smoke.  It  beat  traveling 
by  stage,  however,  and  as  the  people  knew  nothing  of  oil- 
burners,  spark-arresters  and  Pullman  cars,  everybody  was  con- 
tent. 

The  old-time  fireman  earned  every  dollar  that  was  coming 
to  him,  for  he  had  to  keep  busy  all  the  time.  It  was  not  child's 
play  to  have  to  keep  steam  up  with  only  wood  for  fuel.  Then 
too,  it  took  more  steam  to  keep  an  engine  going  at  that  time, 
for  the  engineer  was  using  his  whistle  10  times  as  often  as  he 
uses  it  now. 

There  were  no  fences  along  the  right  of  way  and  as  there 
were  thousands  of  cattle  on  the  prairies  and  woods  where  the 
road  ran,  the  track  was  generally  filled  with  them  every  few 
miles.  As  soon  as  the  trains  would  get  out  of  the  city  limits, 
the  whistle  would  begin  tooting  and  this  was  kept  up  almost 
without  cessation.  Of  course,  a  great  many  cattle  were  killed 
and  this  led  to  bitter  warfare  between  the  cattlemen  and  the 
railroads. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 61 

Wrecks  and  attempted  wrecks  were  frequent,  for  there  were 
•  not  wanting  men,  who,  to  get  revenge  on  the  railroad  company 
by  destroying  its  property,  were  willing  to  run  the  risk  of 
destroying  the  lives  of  innocent  passengers.  The  first  wreck 
of  this  kind  that  ever  occurred  in  Texas,  was  on  the  Houston 
and  Texas  Central,  near  where  the  water  tank  is,  about  12  miles 
from  Houston.  Some  scoundrel  drove  spikes  between  the  ends 
of  the  rails  and  wrecked  the  train.  No  one  was  killed,  but  Mr. 
Bremond,  who  was  on  the  train,  received  quite  serious  injuries 
and  was  laid  up  for  repairs  for  several  days. 

It  is  a  pity  some  historian  of  that  day  did  not  keep  a  record 
of  the  ups  and  downs  of  the  life  of  the  early  railroad  builders. 
It  would  make  interesting  reading  today.  Jt  would  show,  as 
the  Frenchman  said,  "more  downs  as  ups,"  for  their  progress 
was  marked  by  more  temporary  failures  than  by  successes. 


AT    THE    MASQUERADE    BALL. 

I    SUSPECT   that  the   young  folks  have   just  as  good  times 
now  as  we  used  to  have,  but  I  doubt  it.     I  cannot  see 
how  they  can  have,  "our  times"  were  too  near  perfect. 
The   balls,   dances   and   social  gatherings   now   are   too   formal, 
and  then,  too,  the  people  do  not  know  each  other  as  well  as 
they  formerly  did. 

Houston  was  then  not  much  more  than  a  big  town.  Every- 
body knew  everybody  else,  and  it  is  a  fact  that  society  was 
something  like  a  great  family.  There  were  several  social  clubs 
here.  Two  that  devoted  themselves  to  dancing  the  "German." 
These  Clubs  were  the  "O.  C."  and  the  "E.  C."  The  "O.  C."  stood 
for  Omnibus  Club  and  the  "E.  C."  for  Economical  Club.  Each 
club  had  a  "german"  every  two  weeks,  so  that  there  was  a 
"german"  every  week.  There  were  similar  organizations  in 
Galveston,  Austin  and  Waco,  and  as  mutual  invitations  were 
exchanged  there  were  always  some  popular  members  of  out- 
side clubs  at  our  dances  or  some  of  ours  at  theirs.  The  Omni- 
bus Club  got  its  name  from  a  rule  of  the  club  prohibiting  the 
use  of  carriages  and  requiring  the  gentlemen  to  take  the  ladies 
to  the  dances  in  one  of  Baldwin's  omnibuses,  which  made  the 
rounds  collecting  the  couples  for  the  party  and  distributing 
them  after  the  dance  was  over. 

Now,  in  addition  to  these  two  clubs  was  the  famous  Z  Z  Club, 
which  gave  delightful  dances  and  balls,  and  the  grand  Purim 
ball  given  by  another  association.  That  Purim  ball  was  the 
grand  social  event  of  the  year,  and  was  looked  forward  to  with 
pleasurable  anticipation  by  the  young  people  of  Houston  for 


62 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

weeks  before  it  occurred.  It  was  a  mask  ball  and  was  always 
an  enjoyable  event.  • 

Now,  what  made  me  think  of  those  gay  and  festive  times 
was  meeting  my  old  friend,  Mr.  Henry  House  last  week.  I  had 
not  seen  him  in  years  and  would  never  have  known  him  had  he 
not  told  me  who  he  was.  When  I  last  saw  him  he  was  a  frail, 
bright-eyed,  rather  delicate  young  man,  while  today,  as  every- 
body knows,  he  is  a  rather  portly,  handsome  and  dignified 
business  man.  I  remember  his  rosy  cheeks  and  slight  form  of 
years  ago,  for  on  one  occasion  they  led  to  my  undoing. 

In  the  spring  of  1872  or  1873  there  was  given  one  of  the 
grandest  Purim  balls  in  the  history  of  the  association.  People 
talked  about  it  for  weeks  before  it  came  off.  A  great  many 
people  from  neighboring  cities  were  invited,  and  when  the 
night  for  the  ball  arrived  many  were  here  from  Galveston, 
Austin,  Waco,  Dallas  and  from  points  on  the  San  Antonio  Road. 

Soon  after  I  entered  the  ball  room,  I  met  Captain  Conradi, 
who  told  me  that  he  wanted  me  to  take  charge  of  a  young  lady 
who  was  visiting  his  family  and  had  arrived  that  evening  from 
New  Braunfels.  She  was  not  in  costume  or  mask,  but  he  did 
not- think  that  would  bar  her  from  the  dancing  floor,  and  it  did 
not.  He  introduced  me  to  her  and  I  danced  with  her.  She 
was  so  graceful  and  danced  so  well  that  half  the  fellows  in 
the  hall  wanted  to  be  introduced  at  once.  I  saw  her  program 
filled  for  the  entire  evening  in  a  few  moments  and  soon  she 
was  easily  the  belle  of  the  ball. 

I  had  reserved  one  or  two  dances  for  myself  and  I  enjoyed 
every  one  of  them.  I  took  her  to  supper  and  before  the  evening 
was  half  over  she  had  me  head  over  heels  in  love  with  her.  She 
was  so  pretty,  so  natural  and  altogether  such  a  lovely  girl  that 
she  captured  the  hearts  of  half  the  young  men  she  met.  I 
knew  she  had  me,  good  and  fast. 

After  supper  the  order  came  to  unmask  and  then  we  began  to 
find  out  who  we  had  been  dancing  with.  Of  course,  my  young 
lady  did  not  have  to  unmask,  for  she  had  none  on,  therefore  we 
were  all  surprised  when  Captain  Conradi  gave  her  his  arm  and 
escorted  her  to  the  stage.  Then  he  introduced  her  to  the  au- 
dience by  her  right  name,  which  was — Henry  House,  Jr.  All 
of  us  young  fellows  collapsed,  but  so  many  had  been  taken  in, 
and  the  joke  was  so  far-reaching  that  we  took  comfort  in  the 
fact  that  everybody  else  was  fooled  as  badly  as  we  were. 

The  next  day  in  its  account  of  the  ball,  the  Age  said: 

"But  the  very  greatest  imposition  and  cheat  in  the  mas- 
querade— the  truth  of  which  assertion  some  20  or  30  young 
beaux  can  attest  to  their  great  mortification — was  Mr.  Henry 
House,  Jr.,  whose  lithe  figure  and  undergrown  proportions  suited 


HOUSTON  AFP  HOUSTONIANS 63 

the  impersonation  of  a  young  girl  excellently.  His  flowing  hair, 
flashing  jewels,  heavenly  smiles  and  telling  glances  led  many 
an  impressionable  young  man  to  his  undoing." 

During  the  continuance  of  these  balls  there  were  many  fine 
characters  taken  and  there  were  numerous  splendid  impersona- 
tions, but  none  that  ever  came  within  speaking  distance  of 
Henry  House's  "young  lady  from  the  country." 

*  *  * 

A  CORNER    IN    TURKEYS. 

ALL  old  citizens  remember  John  Collins.  He  was  one  of 
Houston's  merchant  princes.  It  would  be  more  fitting 
to  describe  him  as  a  merchant  king,  for  that  was  what 
he  was.  He  was  the  king  of  Houston  retail  grocers,  made  more 
money,  spent  more  money  and  gave  away  more  money  than 
any  other  five  grocerymen  in  the  city  combined. 

He  left  a  fair  estate  when  he  died,  but  had  he  been  possessed 
of  less  heart  and  a  little  legitimate  greed  he  might  have  died 
an  unusually  wealthy  man. 

Thanksgiving  and  Christmas,  days  when  the  turkey  becomes 
the  national  bird,  and  the  Cu»ro  turkey  trot,  made  me  think 
of  Mr.  Collins,  for  at  one  time  he  and  some  turkeys  caused  a  lot 
of  amusement  among  his  intimate  friends.  He  had  a  large  two- 
story  brick  store  at  Travis  Street  and  Preston  Avenue,  the 
corner  now  occupied  by  Sauter's  place.  It  was  the  best  corner 
in  the  city,  being  on  Preston  Avenue,  then  the  greatest  business 
thoroughfare  in  Texas,  for  all  the  business  done  with  the  interior 
came  over  Long  Bridge  at  the  foot  of  Preston,  and  also  facing 
Market  Square.  'Most  any  one  located  there  would  have  done 
a  good  business,  but  Mr.  Collins,  being  something  out  of  the 
ordinary  as  a  business  man,  did  an  immense  one. 

He  had  lots  of  what  is  now  called  the  initiative  and  was  al- 
ways doing  the  unexpected.  On  one  occasion  he  got  up  a  corner 
on  empty  bottles,  a  trick  none  tried  before  nor  since  his  day. 
That  was  outside  his  regular  business,  but  he  was  too  active 
to  permit  of  his  confining  himself  to  his  grocery  trade. 

Since  his  day  ambitious  men  have  tried  to  corner  the  cotton 
and  wheat  markets.  Some  have  done  so  and  others  have  failed. 
Those  who  succeeded  risked  millions  and  paid  for  success  with 
health  and  nerves.  Before  these  ambitious  ones  appeared, 
Mr.  Collins  entered  the  field,  created  a  corner,  carried  it  through 
successfully  and  quit  the  game  a  double  winner. 

In  the  late  fifties  Mr.  Collins,  a  few  weeks  before  Christmas, 
conceived  the  idea  of  cornering  the  turkey  market.  Next  to 
his  store  was  a  vacant  lot.  He  put  up  a  rough  board  fence 
around  it  and  put  the  turkeys  in  the  enclosure. 


64 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

He  bought  all  he  could  get  hold  of  and  a  week  before  Christ- 
mas he  had  by  actual  count  400  turkeys.  In  and  around  Hous- 
ton there  was  not  a  turkey  for  sale  that  Mr.  Collins  did  not 
own.  The  corner  was  complete. 

Then  the  unexpected  happened.  Mr.  Collins  calculated  his 
profits,  but  he  did  not  calculate  the  power  of  bad  boys  to  pro- 
cure trouble.  On  the  very  night  that  he  went  to  bed  congratu- 
lating himself  on  the  success  of  his  scheme,  some  of  those  bad 
boys  cut  the  straps  on  his  turkey  pen  gate  and  the  next  morning 
the  pen  was  empty.  Every  turkey  there  had  departed  for  parts 
unknown. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Collins  was  in  despair,  and  then  an  inspira- 
tion seized  him.  He  put  out  a  board  offering  fifty  cents  for 
each  of  his  turkeys  returned  to  him.  He  had  handbills  scat- 
tered all  over  the  city  making  the  same  offer.  In  an  hour  after 
the  appearance  of  the  handbills,  boys  with  turkeys  began  to 
arrive.  White  boys,  negro  boys,  Mexican  boys  and  all  kinds 
of  boys  arrived  with  turkeys  and  by  night  the  pen  was  pretty 
full  again.  The  next  day  the  turkey  arrivals  continued.  Mr. 
Collins  was  kept  busy  paying  out  fifty-cent  pieces.  Then  the 
pen  got  overcrowded,  something  that  was  not  the  case  before, 
so  Mr.  Collins  made  an  investigation  and  found  on  examination 
of  his  book  that  he  had  paid  out  $300  and  that  he  had  200  tur- 
keys more  than  he  had  before  the  boys  cut  the  gate. 

It  was  all  true,  for  the  boys  had  scoured  the  city  and  county 
and  brought  in  every  turkey  they  could  find.  He  had  his  own 
and  everybody  else's  turkeys,  and  his  corner  was  an  absolute 
cinch. 

*  *  * 

HOW    HAMP   COOK    WAS    ROBBED. 

I   HAVE  told  this  story  once  before,  but  it  is  so  good  that  I 
venture  to  tell  it  again,  for  it  is  several  years  ago  and 
I  am  sure  but  few  of  the  readers  of  The  Chronicle  have 
ever  seen  or  heard  of  it. 

In  1884  we  were  running  a  daily  paper  called  the  Houston 
Chronicle.  We  did  not  have  any  money,  but  we  were  all  willing 
workers  and  what  we  lacked  in  cash  we  made  up  for  in  enthu- 
siasm and  style.  As  a  matter  of  fact  we  had  more  style  than 
anything  else.  We  had  an  editor-in-chief  and  a  managing  editor, 
an  exchange  editor,  a  telegraph  editor  and  a  city  editor.  For 
a  short  while  we  had  a  sporting  editor  also,  but  he  got  drunk 
one  night,  raised  a  rough  house  in  Bell's  "honketonk/'  got 
thrown  out  and  making  direct  for  the  Chronicle  office  wrote  up 
the  place  in  the  most  lurid  style,  slipped  it  upstairs  to  the 
printers  and  left  town,  leaving  me  to  face  Bell  the  next  day 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  65 

when  he  had  blood  in  his  eyes.  Bell's  dive  deserved  all  it  got, 
but  I  did  not  want  the  Chronicle's  readers  to  see  such  language 
used  in  its  columns  as  that  drunken  sporting  editor  put  there. 

But  to  my  story. 

Colonel  Hamp  Cook  was  city  editor  and,  of  course,  he  had  a 
local  staff.  The  staff  consisted  of  one  man,  a  bright  chap  who 
had  one  fatal  defect,  he  could  never  get  past  a  barroom  if  he 
chanced  to  see  any  one  he  knew  on  the  inside.  However,  as  he 
"toted"  his  liquor  well,  Hamp  never  had  much  trouble  with 
him,  and  as  he  never  gave  him  anything  but  routine  work  to 
do,  he  managed  very  well.  Dud  Bryan  was  the  Houston  repre- 
sentative of  the  Galveston  News  at  that  time  and  covered  the 
local  field  most  thoroughly.  He  kept  Hamp  and  his  "staff"  on 
the  jump  all  the  time. 

One  cold  winter  night,  between  9  and  10  o'clock,  a  big  fire 
broke  out  in  the  Fifth  ward.  Hamp  gave  his  "staff"  some  hur- 
ried instructions  and  rushed  to  the  fire.  About  an  hour  after 
he  left,  a  friendly  policeman  came  in  and  reported  that  an 
unknown  dead  man  had  been  found  in  a  deserted  house  away 
out  in  the  Third  Ward.  The  body  had  no  head,  it  having  been 
cut  off  and  carried  away.  It  was  a  fine  story,  but  the  best  part 
of  it  was  that  the  fire  in  the  Fifth  ward  was  still  blazing  and 
we  knew  Dud  Bryan  would  be  detained  there  too  long  to  give 
him  a  chance  to  get  the  murder  story  for  the  News  the  next 
morning.  It  was  the  chance  of  a  lifetime  for  a  big  scoop  on 
the  News. 

I  sent  the  "staff"  hot-footed  after  the  murder  story  and  sat 
down  at  his  desk  to  write  up  the  local  news  from  Hamp's  notes. 
Twelve  o'clock  struck.  The  fire  had  been  put  out,  but  Hamp 
had  not  returned,  nor  had  the  "staff,"  either.  I  knew  it  would 
take  some  time  for  Hamp  to  get  back,  for  it  was  a  long  way 
to  the  Fifth  ward  at  that  time,  the  only  bridge  across  the  bayou 
being  the  old  iron  bridge  at  the  foot  of  Milam  Street.  One 
o'clock,  no  Hamp,  no  staff,  but  the  foreman,  importuning  me  for 
"copy."  I  gave  him  a  handful  of  reprint  and  quieted  him  mo- 
mentarily. Two  o'clock!  The  foreman  sending  down  every  few 
minutes  for  "copy."  I  fed  him  whole  batches  of  newspaper 
clippings  to  keep  him  quiet.  Then,  much  to  my  relief,  Hamp 
Cook  showed  up,  but  I  had  to  take  a  good  look  at  him  before  I 
recognized  him.  He  was  one  living,  moving  mass  of  mud  from 
the  top  of  his  head  to  the  toes  of  his  shoes.  How  he  ever  man- 
aged to  get  to  the  office  with  that  load  of  mud  on  him  was  a 
mystery.  He  told  his  story  briefly.  He  had  been  waylaid  and 
robbed  on  the  other  side  of  the  bayou.  The  highwayman  had 
knocked  him  down  and  then  had  rolled  him  over  and  over  in 


66 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

the  mud,  searching  for  money.  Finally  they  found  35  cents, 
which  they  took  and  departed. 

We  stood  Hamp  up  by  the  stove,  and  the  printers'  devil,  who 
had  come  down  after  "copy"  and  who  had  remained  to  hear 
Hamp's  story,  took  the  coal  shovel  and  began  to  spade  the  mud 
off  of  him.  Just  then  the  door  burst  open  and  in  come  the 
foreman,  with  blood  in  his  eyes.  The  "devil"  thought  he  was 
after  him  and  hastened  to  explain. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cook  was  knocked  down  and  robbed,"  he  exclaimed. 

"Damn  Mr.  Cook,"  shouted  the  foreman.  "I  am  looking  for 

that who  put  a  bag  of  paste  in  my  chair.  Look 

at  me.  I  sat  down  on  it." 

We  took  the  foreman  down  in  the  pressroom  to  wash  him  off 
with  a  hose  and  we  found  the  "staff"  lying  on  a  pile  of  news- 
papers, dead  to  the  world.  He  had  never  gotten  further  than 
the  Rice  Hotel  bar,  where  he  met  some  of  his  friends,  who 
treated  so  liberally  that  evening  his  good  "toting"  qualities 
were  taxed  beyond  their  capacity  and  he  had  fallen. 

Cook  was  game,  though.  He  sat  down  and  wrote  a  fine  ac- 
count of  the  fire  and  then  wrote  up  the  robbery.  He  spread 
himself  on  this  and  made  an  interesting  and  exciting  story  of 
it,  too.  But  he  made  a  fatal  blunder.  In  closing  the  article, 
he  stated  that  while  the  robbers  got  35  cents,  they  overlooked  a 
$5  bill  he  had  in  the  watch  pocket  of  his  pants.  That  ruined 
him.  The  next  evening  Uncle  Dan  McGary  of  the  Age  repro- 
duced his  story  under  the  heading,  "The  Champion  Liar  of  the 
Season,"  and  went  on  to  say  that  Hamp,  being  false  in  one 
thing,  must  be  false  in  all,  and  that  the  whole  story  was  a  fake, 
because  everybody  knew  that  he  never  had  as  much  as  $5  at 
one  time  in  his  whole  life.  He  accused  Hamp  of  trying  to  put 
on  style  in  trying  to  speak  of  a  watch  pocket  and  then  of  lying 
about  having  a  $5  bill  in  it.  The  state  papers  copied  Uncle 
Dan's  version  of  the  affair  and  within  a  week  one  could  not 
tell  from  their  comments  whether  Hamp  robbed  the  robbers 
or  they  had  robbed  him.  The  whole  thing  got  dreadfully  mixed, 
all  because  Hamp  made  the  mistake  of  putting  that  last  line 
at  the  end  of  the  story.  No  doubt  he  referred  to 'that  $5  bill 
for  the  purpose  of  making  the  robbers  feel  bad  because  they 
overlooked  it,  but  it  proved  a  (boomerang  and  came  back  on 
his  head. 

Of  course  the  Chronicle  did  not  scoop  the  News  with  the  mur- 
der story,  but  we  all  had  a  strenuous  time  trying  to  do  so. 

••• 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 67 

NO    SECOND    FORTUNE    WANTED. 

IHE  other  night  at  the  Press  Club  a  crowd  was  collected 
about   the    reading   table    discussing    every    imaginable 
subject  ,-under  the  sun.     Finally  one  of  the  gentlemen 
asked  me  what  I  would  do  if  I  had  a  million  dollars. 

I  told  him  the  truth — that  I  would  get  a  shotgun  and  shoot 
every  real  estate  man  or  promoter  who  came  within  50  yards 
of  me  with  any  scheme  for  me  to  invest  in,  and  that  after  I 
got  them  all  scared  off  I  would  proceed  to  gratify  the  greatest 
wish  of  my  life,  namely,  to  spend  the  money  just  as  I  pleased. 
Since  my  tastes  are  not  -  expensive  ones,  a  million  would  last 
me  the  remainder  of  my  life,  which  remainder  I  placed  at  not 
more  than  30  years. 

The  subject  of  gratifying  one's  wishes  in  the  way  of  spending 
money  brought  to  my  mind  a  famous  character  who  formerly- 
lived  here,  but  who  has  long  ago  been  gathered  to  his  fathers. 
His  name  was  (Fitzgerald  and  he  was  a  full-blooded  Irishman, 
and  a  typical  one,  too.  He  had  a  little  oyster  stand  down  on 
Travis  Street  and  ^vhile  his  trade  was  not  great  nor  very  re- 
munerative, !he  managed  to  make  a  fair  living  and  was  out- 
wardly content  and  happy.  He  loved  the  flowing  bowl,  but  was 
forced  to  play  the  game  on  a  small  limit  because  of  his  narrow 
finances. 

He  was  content  and  happy,  as  I  say,  and  doubtless  would 
have  passed  through  life  in  a  very  humdrum,  prosy  way  had 
not  an  unforeseen  incident  bobbed  up.  His  father,  uncle  or 
some  one  of  his  immediate  relatives  had  preceded  him  and 
settled  in  Houston  while  the  town  was  still  in  its  infancy. 
Fitz,  for  such  his  intimates  called  him,  knew  nothing  of  this 
relative  beyond  the  fact  that  there  had  been  such  a  person, 
therefore  he  was  greatly  surprised  one  day  when  a  lawyer  came 
to  his  oyster  place  and  told  him  that  he  was  a  wealthy  man. 

"If  you  are  the  heir  of  old  Blank  Fitzgerald,"  the  lawyer  told 
him,  "you  own  the  whole  of  the  Third  Ward  of  this  city,  and  I 
can  get  it  for  you  if  you  will  sign  these  papers." 

Fitz,  having  everything  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose,  promptly 
signed  the  papers  and  the  next  day  or  two  saw  the  beginning 
of  a  real  estate  volcano.  There  were  suits  and  counter  suits  and, 
as  the  new  Bible  says,  there  was  underworld  to  pay.  The  old 
Fitzgerald  claim  appeared  to  be  all  right  and  there  was  scarcely 
a  lot  holder  in  the  Third  Ward  who  felt  safe. 

In  a  week  or  two  offers  to  compromise  began  to  pour  in 
from  these  frightened  people,  and  Fitz's  lawyer  literally  did  a 
land  office  business.  In  those  days  real  estate  was  not  selling 
for  $4500  the  front  foot.  That  amount  of  money  would  have 


68 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

bought  several  blocks  in  most  any  part  of  the  Third  or  any 
other  ward  of  the  city,  hence  compromises  were  not  difficult 
to  make. 

Fifty  dollars  here,  a  hundred  there  and  sums  of  that  kind 
usually  satisfied  all  claims  and  resulted  in  clear  titles.  The 
lawyer  waited  until  he  rounded  up  the  whole  lot  and  then  he 
went  to  Fitz  with  his  part  of  the  money.  It  was  only  a  few 
thousand  dollars,  but  even  that  was  more  money  than  Fitz 
thought  there  was  in  the  whole  world.  He  promptly  kicked  his 
oyster  counter  over,  threw  his  knives  out  in  the  street,  tore 
the  door  of  his  shanty  off  its  hinges,  took  his  paint  brush  and 
went  out  in  the  town  to  paint  it  red.  The  chance  that. he  had 
dreamed  of  all  his  life  had  come  and  he  took  advantage  of  it. 

His  field  of  operations  was  limited,  so  that  while  he  spent 
his  money  freely  and  bought  lots  of  whiskey  for  himself  and 
friends,  his  roll  lasted  about  three  months,  though,  and  when 
he  finally  became  a  physical  and  financial  wreck  he  had  at  least 
the  doubtful  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  no  one  who  had  pre- 
ceded him  had  ever  pulled  off  a  similar  stunt. 

After  laying  up  for  repairs  for  a  week  or  two  Fitz  went  back 
to  his  old  shack,  repaired  the  counter,  fixed  the  door,  got  new 
knives  and  settled  down  to  his  old  business  just  as  if  nothing 
had  occurred  to  interfere  with  the  placid  flow  of  his  life. 

About  six  months  after  he  had  settled  down  the  same  lawyer 
bustled  in  again.  "Fitz,"  said  he,  "I  have  found  that  you  own 
all  of  the  Second  Ward  and  I'm  going  to  get  that  for  you,  too." 

"You're  not,"  shouted  Fitz.  "I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I'm  through  with  the  whole  thing.  Why,  man,  I  would  not  get 
on  another  drunk  like  that  one  I  had  for  the  whole  city  of 
Houston.  Git  out  of  me  place." 

The  lawyer  had  actually  discovered  that  Fitz  had  a  good  claim 
to  lots  of  property  in  the  Second  Ward,  but  he  could  not  get 
Fitz  to  assert  his  claim.  "Send  'em  to  me,"  he  said,  "and  I'll 
give  every  one  of  them  a  clean  title  and  thank  them  for  takin' 
it."  He  did  it,  too,  and  gave  every  man  whose  title  was  affected 
a  quit  claim  deed. 

He  knew  of  no  way  to  enjoy  a  fortune  except  to  spend  the 
money  for  liquor  and  he  had  had  his  fill  of  that.  The  lawyer 
was  disgusted,  of  course,  but  could  do  nothing,  so  accepted  the 
inevitable.  Fitz  continued  his  oyster  business  to  the  end  and  got 
more  enjoyment  out  of  it  than  he  did  out  of  the  few  thousand 
dollars  that  he  spent  on  his  great  spree. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 69 

HOUSTON'S    LAST  AFFAIR   OF    HONOR. 

I  SAW  the  other  day  where  a  Frenchman  had  offered  to  give 
any  one  10,000  francs  who  would  furnish  him  with  a  new 
sensation.  I  don't  know  what  that  Frenchman's  record  in 
the  sensation  line  is,  but  if  I  could  fix  up  the  stage,  as  it  was 
once  fixed  up  for  me,  I  could  get  his  money  easily. 

I  know  of  only  one  sensation  I  have  not  experienced — that 
of  having  killed  a  man.  Now  as  I  practiced  medicine  for  about 
five  years,  I  can  see  some  of  my  friends  raise  their  eyebrows 
over  that  statement,  but  if  I  have  ever  killed  any,  I  did  so 
scientifically  and  did  not  know  it,  hence  my  conscience  does  not 
hurt  me.  I  have  experienced  the  sensation  of  being  nearly 
killed  myself  two  or  three  times,  and  on  one  memorable  occa- 
sion, I  came  face  to  face  with  the  ghost  of  a  dead  man  I  had 
cut  up  half  an  hour  before,  and  I  had  the  time  of  my  life  in 
the  sensation  line  when  I  did  so.  That  was  what  I  referred  to 
when  I  spoke  of  fixing  up  the  stage  for  that  Frenchman  a  mo- 
ment ago.  I  am  not  going  to  tell  any  ghost  story  now,  and  I 
refer  to  it  merely  to  let  the  reader  understand  that  I  am  a  bit 
of  an  expert  when  it  comes  to  sensations. 

To  be  guilty  of  taking  human  life  must  be  the  most  terrible 
thing  on  earth.  No  matter  what  the  circumstances  are,  there 
must  be  keen  regret,  if  not  agonizing  remorse  at  all  times.  I 
once  knew  a  man  who  had  killed  three  men.  He  was  actually 
afraid  to  go  in  the  dark,  not  afraid  of  the  living  revenging 
themselves  on  him,  but  afraid  of  the  dead.  It  was  said  that  he 
killed  the  second  man  to  get  rid  of  the  first,  and  the  third  to 
get  rid  of  the  second.  He  got  tired  of  the  ghosts  and  wanted 
a  change  of  companions.  Now  all  this  is  simply  a  prelude  of 
the  story  of  a  young  man  who  resides  in  Houston,  who  is  pre- 
pared to  go  in  court  and  swear  to  the  agony  a  sensitive  person 
feels  after  he  has  "got  his  man." 

Some  years  ago  there  were  two  young  gentlemen  here  who 
were  great  friends  but  who  were  constantly  falling  out  with 
each  other — kind  of  lovers'  quarrels,  as  it  were.  One  (perhaps 
both)  is  here  now,  so  I  shall  not  call  names,  though  the  truth 
of  the  story  will  be  vouched  for  by  hundreds  when  this  recalls 
it  to  their  memories.  One  day  these  two  youths  had  a  most 
bitter  and  serious  quarrel,  and  their  companions  saw  a  good 
chance  to  have  some  fun.  Instead  of  trying  to  bring  the  two 
together,  they  widened  the  breach  and  magnified  its  importance 
until  finally  they  induced  orre  of  the  boys  to  challenge  the  other. 

They  took  the  challenged  party  into  their  confidence  and 
told  him  that  no  balls  would  be  put  in  the  pistols  and  only 
blank  cartridges  would  be  used.  Under  these  safe  circumstances, 


70 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

he  readily  accepted  the  challenge  and  chose  pistols  at  16  paces. 
He  was  told  that  he  must  fall  dead  at  the  first  fire,  and  stay 
dead  until  they  could  get  his  slayer  out  of  the  way.  The  plan 
worked  beautifully,  for  the  other  fellow  was  game  and  even 
eager  to  fight,  so  they  had  no  trouble  with  him.  Early  the  next 
day  the  principals  and  their  seconds  appeared  promptly  on  the 
field  of  honor,  away  out  somewhere  beyond  the  city  limits  in 
the  Third  Ward.  The  men  were  placed,  the  word  given  and 
at  "three"  both  fired.  The  challenged  man  threw  his  hands 
over  his  heart,  wavered  a  little  and  then  dropped  dead,  all  in 
proper  form.  When  he  saw  his  friend  fall,  the  survivor  was 
panic  stricken,  and,  for  the  first  time  realized  that  his  whole 
life  was  to  be  one  of  remorse  and  regret.  He  wanted  to  rush 
forward  and  throw  himself  on  the  body  of  his  dead  friend  and 
plead  for  forgiveness,  but  was  restrained  by  his  seconds,  who 
pointed  out  to  him  the  necessity  for  immediate  flight.  He  took 
one  wistful  look  at  the  place  where  his  friend's  body  was  lying 
on  the  grass  and  then,  panic  stricken,  he  started  for  Mexico  on 
foot,  like  a  race  horse. 

After  he  was  well  out  of  sight  the  dead  man  got  up  and  the 
whole  party  returned  to  town  to  enjoy  the  joke.  There  was 
only  one  thing  they  overlooked  in  their  calculation,  that  was 
the  agony  and  remorse  of  their  victim.  He  wandered  aimlessly 
all  the  morning  and  finally  concluded  that  there  was  only  one 
thing  to  do  to  drown  his  sorrow — return  to  the  city,  give  him- 
self up,  and  be  hung  for  the  murder.  He  felt  easier  after  mak- 
ing up  his  mind  to  return  and  be  hanged,  so  he  started  for 
town,  and  when  he  got  there  he  went  to  the  court  house  to  look 
for  the  sheriff.  As  he  turned  the  corner  of  Preston  Avenue,  he 
saw  what  he  supposed  was  the  ghost  of  his  murdered  friend 
standing  in  the  court  house  door.  The  ghost  saw  him  at  the 
same  time  and  attempted  to  hide  behind  the  door.  The  young 
man  rushed  eagerly  toward  the  ghost,  but  the  ghost,  concluding 
that  he  had  found  out  the  joke  that  had  been  played  on  him  and 
was  coming  to  take  revenge  on  him  for  the  part  he  had  played 
in  it,  concluded  not  to  wait  for  him  and  fled.  Then  commenced 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  flights  and  pursuits  that  has  ever 
been  witnessed  on  court  house  square,  or  anywhere  else,  so 
far  as  that  goes.  The  ghost  rushed  through  the  court  house 
with  the  victim  close  behind  him.  The  ghost  gained  some  slight 
advantage  by  diving  into  a  cigar  store,  knocking  down  two  or 
three  people  who  were  in  there,  wrecking  the  stand  and  thus 
blocking  the  way  long  enough  to  allow  him  to  reach  the  back 
yard,  mount  some  dry  goods  boxes  and  crawl  over  a  fence  into 
the  next  yard.  The  advantage  was  only  slight,  however,  for 
the  victim  was  a  good  second  and  reached  the  next  yard,  by 


HOUSTON  AND  'HOUSTONIANS 71 

the  same  route,  almost  as  quickly  as  the  ghost.  Then,  in  a  per- 
fect agony  of  fear,  the  ghost  made  for  the  sidewalk  again, 
choosing  for  his  route  the  first  open  door  he  saw,  which  chanced 
to  belong  to  a  little  tailor  shop.  In  they  went,  like  a  couple 
of  wild  horses,  knocking  down  shelves,  overturning  tables  and 
wrecking  the  place  completely.  By  this  time  the  ghost  was  con- 
vinced that  the  victim  had  secured  a  bowie  knife  and  was  only 
waiting  to  get  near  enough  to  him  to  rip  him  into  bits.  The 
thought  put  new  life  and  energy  into  his  legs,  and  reaching  the 
sidewalk  he  lit  out  in  true  Marathon  style.  He  had  seen  the 
folly  of  trying  to  dodge  into  stores,  so  kept  to  the  open  street. 
The  victim  was  as  anxious  to  capture  him  as  he  was  to  escape, 
and  took  after  him,  also  with  renewed  energy.  Not  one  word 
had  been  spoken  up  to  this  time.  The  chase,  barring  the 
crashes  in  the  cigar  store  and  tailor  shop,  had  been  conducted 
amidst  profound  silence.  After  going  four  blocks  in  something 
like  a  fraction  of  a  second,  the  victim  managed  to  get  near 
enough  to  the  ghost,  and  to  find  breath  enough  to  say,  "Hold 
on,  you  fool.  I  don't  want  to  fight  you;  I  want  to  kiss  you  for 
being  alive." 

That  was  all.  He  was  so  glad  that  he  was  not  a  murderer 
that  he  wanted  to  kiss  his  supposed  victim.  It  was  a  terrible 
load  that  was  lifted  from  his  mind  and  heart  and  he  was  crazy 
with  joy.  He  felt  such  relief  that  he  forgave  everybody  who 
had  anything  to  do  with  the  duel  and  the  subject  was  allowed 
to  die  out  by  the  principals.  The  joke  was  so  evenly  divided 
between  these  two  that  neither  had  any  advantage. 

That,  I  believe,  is  the  last  "affair  of  honor"  that  has  occurred 
in  Houston. 

*  *  * 

MRS.   BURKHART  AND   THE    BOYS. 

NOT  so  long  ago  one  of  my  legal  friends  asked  me  to  go 
with  him  to  locate  a  fence   that  was   built  long  ago 
along  Preston  Avenue  to  the  bayou,  near  the  bridge.  The 
question  to  be  determined  was  whether  there  had  been  a  fence 
there  or  not  and  if  there  had  been,  where  it  was  located. 

That  visit  brought  back  more  amusing  memories  than  any 
other  locality  could  have  possibly  done.  The  property  under 
dispute  was  formerly  owned  by  Mrs.  Burkhart.  She  owned  the 
whole  block  on  the  bayou  between  Prairie  and  Preston,  fronting 
Smith  Street.  She  had  no  more  idea  of  riparian  rights  than  she 
had  of  the  constitution  and  by-laws  of  the  Fiji  Islands,  and 
when  she  built  her  fences  she  covered  all  the  land  and  as  much 
of  the  bayou  as  she  could.  Having  erected  her  stronghold,  she 
stood  ever  ready  to  defend  it  against  intruders.  Dickens'  old 
lady  who  carried  on  relentless  war  against  donkeys  was  not 


72          TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

a  drop  in  the  bucket  as  a  warrior  compared  to  Mrs.  Burkhart 
conducting  her  private  war  against  the  boys.  There  were  some 
nice  fishing  holes  inside  the  enclosure  and  there  were  lots  of 
nice  mustang  and  winter  grapes  along  the  banks  of  the  bayou. 
These  tempted  the  boys,  but  by  the  time  they  were  getting  their 
first  fish  out  of  the  water  or  reaching  for  the  grapes  Mrs.  Burk- 
hart would  loom  up  armed  with  bricks  and  bones  and  open  fire 
on  the  intruder  or  intruders.  I  don't  think  she  ever  caught  a 
boy  so  I  can't  say  what  she  would  have  done  had  she  taken  a 
prisoner.  The  boys  never  gave  her  a  chance  to  show  her  hand 
in  that  way,  for  on  the  arrival  of  the  first  piece  of  brick  or 
bone  a  hasty  retreat  was  beaten. 

About  the  nearest  she  ever  came  to  capturing  a  prisoner  was 
in  the  case  of  Dick  Fuller.  It  was  "popgun  time"  and  china- 
berries  were  in  great  demand.  Near  the  Prairie  side  of  the 
block  there  was  a  large  chinaberry  tree  that  extended  over  into 
the  street.  One  day  Dick  got  up  in  this  tree,  gathered  a  num- 
ber of  bunches  of  berries  and  began  picking  them  into  his  hat. 
He  wanted  to  get  a  hatful  so  as  to  have  a  big  supply.  He  be- 
came so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  forgot  all  about  Mrs. 
Burkhart  and  she  crept  up  under  him  without  his  knowing  any- 
thing about  her  warlike  intentions.  Dick  was  sitting  on  a  limb 
with  his  feet  resting  on  another  and  was  very  comfortable  and 
well  content.  While  he  was  sitting  there  he  began  to  feel  the 
waist-band  of  his  trousers  tighten  mysteriously  and  on  attempt- 
ing to  move  found  he  could  not  do  so.  He  looked  down  and  was 
horrified  to  see,  directly  under  him,  Mrs.  Burkhart,  who  had 
made  him  a  prisoner  in  a  novel  way.  She  had  taken  a  long 
pole  she  used  to  prop  up  her  clothes  line  with.  This  had  two 
nails  driven  in  the  end  of  it.  She  had  reached  up  and  succeeded 
in  entangling  those  nails  in  the  seat  of  Dick's  trousers.  When 
she  saw  that  Dick  had  discovered  her  she  threw  aside  all  dis- 
guise and  went  at  the  entangling  work  in  real  earnest.  Dick 
tugged  and  squirmed  and  Mrs.  Burkhart  twisted  and  twisted. 
It  was  terribly  humiliating  to  be  captured  by  a  woman  and  cap- 
tured by  the  seat  of  his  pants,  too,  but  Dick's  mind  was  not 
on  the  disgrace,  humiliation  or  anything  of  that  kind,  but  was 
on  how  to  make  his  escape.  Dick  pulled  and  pulled  and  Mrs.  B. 
twisted  and  twisted,  trying  to  secure  an  indestructible  hold,  so 
between  the  two  they  managed  to  overdo  the  thing  and,  the  seat 
of  the  pants  being  human  (if  I  can  say  such  a  thing  about  the 
seat  of  pants),  gave  way  and  Dick  was  free. 

When  she  saw  that  her  tail-hold  had  broken  she  grew  des- 
perate and  made  strenuous  efforts  to  punch  him  out  of  the  tree 
with  the  pole.  He  saw  only  one  avenue  of  escape.  He  rushed 
out  as  far  as  could  on  the  limb  and  made  a  dive  into  the  street. 
He  did  not  ask  her  for  the  part  of  his  wardrobe  she  flaunted  at 
the  end  of  the  pole  in  his  face,  but  turned  tail  and  fled.  He 
managed  to  save  his  hat,  but  lost  all  his  berries,  of  course. 

Now,  looking  back  after  all  these  years,  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  Mrs.  Burkhart  actually  enjoyed  having  the  boys  in- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 73 

trude  on  her  premises  because  of  the  fun  it  afforded  her  in 
running  them  off.  She  looked  like  a  fiend  when  she  had  Dick 
Fuller  hooked  up  that  time,  but  I  am  willing  to  bet  she  enjoyed 
a  good  laugh  all  to  herself  when  she  began  untangling  the  seat 
of  his  pants  from  the  nails  at  the  end  of  her  pole.  She  made 
it  a  point  never  to  recognize  a  boy  on  the  street  or  to  take  the 
slightest  notice  that  he  was  on  the  face  of  the  earth;  but  let 
him  crawl  over  her  fence  and  all  that  was  changed  and  he  found 
himself  the  center  of  the  most  ardent  and'  heartfelt  attention. 
There  was  no  ignoring  him  then. 

*  *  * 

FRANK    LA   MOTT'S   STORY. 

YES,"    said    Frank    La    Mott,    "I   have   known    some    queer 
characters  in  my  day,  but  the  queerest  I  ever  ran  across 
was  an  old,  one-eyed  chap  that  taught  school  for  several 
years  out  west  of  San  Antonio.    If  I  did  not  know  Canon  Doyle 
never  heard  of  the  man  I  would  be  tempted  to  believe  that  he 
had  him  in  mind  when  he  created  Sir  Niegel.     This  old  fellow 
was  on  the  warpath  all  the  time  and  spent  his  leisure  moments 
reading  about  chivalry,  knights  errant  and  all  that  sort  of  fool- 


"The  old  chap  had  only  one  eye,  and  the  way  he  lost  the 
missing  one  was  in  keeping  with  everything  he  did.  He  be- 
longed to  a  cavalry  regiment  that  served  on  the  other  side  of 
the  river  during  the  war,  and  they  say  he  made  one  of  the 
best  soldiers  in  his  command.  I  can't  swear  that  the  story  is 
true  in  every  detail,  but  I  have  heard  it  so  often  that  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  every  word  of  it.  Once  his  regiment  was 
camped  on  one  side  of  a  big  bend  in  a  river  and  a  Yankee  regi- 
ment was  camped  on  the  other.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  two 
regiments  were  on  the  same  side  of  the  river,  but  there  was  a 
big  bend  in  the  river,  coming  down  to  a  narrow  neck  that  made 
them  appear  to  be  on  opposite  sides. 

"One  day  a  crazy  Yank  came  down  to  the  bank  of  the  river 
and  rode  his  horse  up  and  down,  waving  his  hat  and  making 
signs  and  signals.  No  one  could  make  out  what  he  was  up  to 
,  until  finally  our  old  chap  solved  the  mystery. 

"  'That  chap  is  making  a  defi,'  he  said.  'He  wants  to  run  a 
tilt  for  the  advancement  of  his  lady  love.  Don't  you  see  he 
holds  up  one  hand  and  then  points  up  the  river?  He  wants  a 
private  war,  and  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  him.  I  ain't  got  no 
lady;  but  I  will  stop  his  advancing  his.'  So  saying  he  saddled 
up  his  horse,  buckled  on  his  six-shooter  and  motioning  to  the 
Yank  to  come  ahead,  he  rode  off  to  the  big  bend  in  the  river. 

"The  Yank  must  have  been  out  for  what  the  old  man  said, 
for  as  soon  as  he  saw  him  start  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and 
aimed  for  the  bend,  too.  They  commenced  shooting  as  soon 
as  they  got  in  range  and  about  the  second  shot  the  Yank's 
bullet  knocked  the  old  chap's  eye  out.  That  made  him  so  mad 
that  he  charged  down  on  the  Yank,  yelling  like  an  Indian  and 


74 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

shooting  like  a  fiend.  That  charge  was  too  much  for  the  Yank. 
He  forgot  all  about  the  advancement  of  his  lady  love  and  thought 
only  of  the  retirement  of  himself.  He  turned  tail  and  broke 
for  his  camp  with  the  old  chap  right  behind  him,  coming  like 
a  prairie  fire.  In  spite  of  the  danger,  the  boys  could  not  keep 
from  yelling,  and  the  Yanks  were  doing  the  same.  The  old  fel- 
low chased  that  'knight'  right  into  his  camp  and  tried  to  hit 
him  with  his  empty  six-shooter  after  he  caught  him. 

"The  Yanks  were  dead-game  sports.  They  had  seen  that  it 
was  a  fair  fight,  and  they  refused  to  take  advantage  of  the 
situation.  They  had  their  doctor  fix  the  old  chap's  eye  and 
then  they  turned  him  loose  and  let  him  go  back  to  his  own 
regiment.  Some  of  the  boys  used  to  say  they  sent  him  back 
with  a  guard  of  honor,  but  I  always  omit  that  part  when  I  tell 
the  story. 

"Now  if  you  knew  the  old  fellow  you  would  be  prepared  to  be- 
lieve this  story,  or  any  other  that  would  bring  out  his  game- 
ness.  He  was  like  one  of  those  blue-legged  crabs  in  a  tub  that 
throws  up  both  arms,  ready  for  battle  every  time  anybody  looks 
at  him.  The  old  man  was  always  looking  for  trouble,  with  the 
result  that,  after  his  reputation  was  established,  he  was  always 
treated  with  the  most  distinguished  consideration  and  courtesy. 

"Now,  from  what  I  have  told  you  about  the  old  man  you 
would  think  that  nothing  on  earth  could  rattle  him,  and  that 
he  had  nerves  made  out  of  galvanized  iron.  He  had  nothing 
of  the  kind,  but  was  one  of  the  most  nervous  men  you  ever 
saw.  He  would  stand  up  and  fight  the  devil  himself  with  knife 
or  pistol,  and  never  a  whimper,  but  if  any  one  sprang  a  surprise 
on  him  he  would  go  all  to  pieces.  I  suspect  he  was  ticklish. 
I  remember  I  gave  him  a  great  surprise  and  he  gave  me  one 
in  return  that  I  remembered  for  a  long  time.  He  was  walking 
down  Houston  Street,  in  San  Antonio,  and  I  walked  up  behind 
him  and  slapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  He  squatted  down  on 
the  ground  and  squealed  like  a  wildcat  and  then  rose  with  a 
bowie  knife  in  his  hand  and  chased  me  for  two  blocks.  He  was 
simply  crazy  from  nervousness  and  did  not  know  what  he  was 
doing.  I  heard  afterward  that  he  did  the  same  thing  in  the 
legislative  hall  at  Austin  and  came  near  killing  one  of  his  friends 
who  came  up  behind  him  and  nudged  him.  You  can  bet  I  never 
tried  to  flank  nor  come  up  in  his  rear  after  that.  I  would  dodge 
him  until  he  could  see  me  advancing  from  in  front,  and  even 
then  I  watched  out  for  signs  of  war  from  him.  The  old  fellow 
always  carried  two  derringers  and  a  bowie  knife  and  it  is  a 
wonder  he  did  not  kill  off  half  his  friends. 

"He  was  a  great  believer  in  dueling,  but  I  don't  think  he  ever 
fought  a  duel  unless  that  tournament  with  the  Yankee  might 
be  called  one.  He  was  always  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  wait  for 
the  seconds  to  arrange  the  affair.  Poor  old  fellow.  He  has  been 
dead  now  many  years,  but  the  next  time  you  are  in  San  Antonio 
and  come  across  any  old-timers  you  ask  them  about  'Professor 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 75 

Pete  White,'  and  listen  to  the  tales  they  will  tell  you.    You  can 
get  enough  to  make  a  book  if  you  want  to." 

*  *  * 

NOT   DOWN   ON   THE    PROGRAMME. 

WHATEVER  may  be  said  of  Houston's  quiet  Christmas, 
the  same  does  not  apply  to  New  Year's  Eve,  the 
death  of  the  old  year.  Houston  fairly  stood  up  on  its 
hind  legs  and  welcomed  the  new  year  in  the  most  royal  man- 
ner. There  was  noise  enough  to  make  up  for  the  deficit  for 
Christmas  and  then  have  some  left  over.  I  did  not  see  any 
of  it,  for  I  did  not  venture  away  from  the  Press  Club,  where  a 
number  of  us  welcomed  the  new  year  in  in  an  orderly  manner. 

That  noise,  firecrackers,  pistol  shooting  and  everything  else, 
showed  me  that  there  was  some  love  of  fun  left  in  the  old  place 
yet  and  made  me  like  it  all  the  more.  It  was  much  after  the 
way  we  used  to  celebrate  and  for  the  first  time  I  began  to  feel 
as  if  I  were  at  home.  One  terrible  explosion  had  a  good  effect 
on  me,  for  it  carried  me  back  instantly  to  so  many  years  ago 
that  I  am  not  going  to  say  how  many. 

There  is  a  good  story  involved  in  that  explosion,  too,  and  I 
am  going  to  tell  it,  although  it  is  on  Sinclair,  and  he  may  not 
like  to  have  it  told.  The  reader  must  remember  that  we  were 
all  much  younger  and  that  W.  R.  Sinclair  was  very  far  from 
being  the  staid  and  dignified  editor  that  he  is  today. 

The  newspaper  boys  and  the  police  stood  in  with  each  other 
much  closer  then  than  they  do  today.  The  "force"  was  not 
large,  but  it  was  lively.  Alex  Erichson  was  chief  and  Bill  Glass 
was  deputy  chief.  Alex  was  serious  and  took  but  little  stock 
in  fun  and  jokes,  but  Bill  Glass  made  up  for  all  the  chief's  de- 
fects in  that  way. 

There  was  a  good  sprinkling  of  railroad  men  who  ran  with 
the  gang  also,  and  it  was  the  neglect  of  one  of  these  that  gave 
rise  to  the  following  incident,  which  is  absolutely  true: 

A  conductor  who  "ran  with  the  gang"  got  married  during 
Christmas  week  and  on  New  Year's  Eve  gave  a  dance  at  his 
residence  down  in  Frostown,  as  that  part  of  the  city  where  the 
gas  works  was  located  was  called.  His  house  wasa  a  small  one 
and  presumably  for  that  reason  he  failed  to  invite  any  of  the 
"boys"  to  the  dance. 

Bill  Glass  and  Sinclair,  or  "Sin."  as  he  was  called,  understood 
well  enough  that  no  slight  had  been  intended,  but  they  pretended 
to  be  greatly  outraged  and  worked  on  the  others  until  they  were 
ready  to  do  anything  that  Glass  and  Sinclair  suggested.  These 
two  thought  of  every  possible  way  of  getting  even  with  the 
conductor  and  at  last  hit  upon  the  following  novel  plan,  which 
would  not  only  accomplish  their  purpose,  but  at  the  same  time 
let  the  whole  town  know  that  they  were  on  their  job. 

Near  midnight  they  got  the  boys  together  near  the  court 
house  and  told  them  their  plans.  There  were  several  pieces  of 
field  artillery,  six-pounders,  that  had  been  accumulated  by  the 


76 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Federal  army  of  occupation  and  left  on  court  house  square,  to 
be  shipped  North.  These  guns  were  all  dismounted  and  were 
lying  on  the  ground. 

The  two  conspirators  selected  one  of  the  cleanest,  found  that 
the  vent  was  open  and  that  it  was  in  good  firing  condition.  Bill 
Glass  had  a  quantity  of  gunpowder  and  they  stood  the  gun  on 
end  while  he  poured  about  a  hatful  of  it  into  the  gun  and  then 
rammed  a  newspaper  down  on  it  with  a  long  stick.  It  was  a 
crude  loading,  but  it  was  enough  to  make  a  noise.  Having  loaded 
the  cannon,  they  got  some  heavy  sticks,  or  rather  poles,  and 
half  a  dozen  fellows  vied  with  each  other  for  the  honor  of  acting 
as  pallbearers.  The  weather  was  outrageous  and  the  mud  was 
knee-deep  everywhere,  but  that  made  no  difference. 

They  marched  »down  to  the  conductor's  residence,  opened  his 
front  gate  and  proceeded  to  plant  their  gun  on  the  sidewalk. 
They  got  the  proper  elevation  by  propping  up  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun  with  pickets,  bricks  and  anything  they  could  find,  and  when 
they  got  through  the  piece  was  well  placed,  aiming  exactly  at 
the  doorknob  of  the  front  door. 

It  was  a  very  cold  night  and  all  the  doors  were  closed  tight. 
The  gang  could  hear  the  music  and  the  revelry  going  on  inside 
and  chuckled  to  think  what  a  surprise  they  were  going  to  give 
the  revellers.  Having  planted  their  gun  properly,  they  inserted 
a  friction  primer,  attached  a  long  rope  to  it,  hitched  the  rope 
to  the  front  doorknob,  so  that  simply  opening  the  door  would 
fire  the  cannon,  and  then  they  hid  out  to  await  developments. 

They  waited  and  waited,  but  no  one  came  to  the  door.  Fin- 
ally Sinclair  determined  to  wait  no  longer,  so  he  slipped  up  to 
the  door,  intending  to  knock  on  it  and  get  out  of  the  way  before 
anyone  answered  the  knock.  His  idea  was  all  right,  but  it  mis- 
carried. Just  as  he  reached  the  door  and  extended  his  hand  to 
knock  some  one  jerked  the  door  open. 

The  surprise  was  a  success  in  more  ways  than  the  boys  had 
calculated.  The  cannon  went  off  with  a  roar  that  woke  up  all 
the  old  people  in  Houston  who  had  gone  to  sleep,  and  when  it 
did  so  it  shot  Sinclair  clean  into  the  hall  and  half  way  through 
the  back  door.  It  came  near  wrecking  the  house  itself.  Every 
pane  of  glass  and  every  dish  in  the  house  was  smashed  to 
pieces.  The  worst  part  was  that  Sinclair  had  been  shot  right 
into  the  enemy's  hands  and  had  no  earthly  excuse  for  being  there. 

The  conductor  was  so  frightened  that  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do.  In  the  confusion  Sinclair  managed  to  escape.  When 
he  got  outside  he  found  that  every  one  of  his  conspirators  had 
deserted  him.  They  all  thought  that  Sinclair  and  everybody  in 
the  house  had  been  blown  to  pieces,  so  they  took  to  their  heels. 
Sinclair  trudged  through  the  mud  to  town. 

His  hair  was  singed  off  and  his  clothes  torn  into  bits.  In  fact, 
he  was  as  much  of  a  wreck  as  the  house  was.  About  2  o'clock 
in  the  morning  the  conductor  showed  up  at  police  headquarters 
and  reported  the  outrage  to  Deputy  Chief  Bill  Glass,  who  listened 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 77 

patiently  and  made  the  most  strenuous  promises  that  he  would 
investigate  the  thing  and  punish  the  guilty  persons. 

By  next  morning  Sinclair,  who  had  thought  over  the  thing, 
wrote  an  indignant  letter  to  the  conductor,  charging  him  with 
having  attempted  to  take  his  life.  He  said  that  he  had  called 
to  pass  the  usual  congratulations,  having  found  the  house 
lighted  and  everybody  up,  and  that  just  as  he  knocked  on  the 
door  the  conductor  had  exploded  a  concealed  mine  on  him  and 
had  come  near  killing  him. 

"Sin"  took  the  offensive  from  the  start  and  won  out.  It  was 
not  so  difficult  to  do,  either,  for  it  was  against  reason  to  believe 
that  a  man  would  fix  up  such  a  thing  and  then  voluntarily  get 
right  in  front  of  it  himself. 

Bill  Glass  investigated,  got  clews  and  abandoned  them  and 
finally  gave  up  and  informed  the  conductor  that  he  was  unable 
to  solve  the  mystery. 

That  old  cannon  lay  out  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  con- 
ductor's house  for  a  long  time  and  was  finally  taken  away  by  the 
Federal  authorities  and  shipped  North.  The  conductor  had 
been  in  the  Federal  army  and,  as  the  gun  was  a  Confederate 
cannon,  no  doubt  that  New  Year's  night  was  not  the  first  time 
it  had  been  fired  at  him. 

Just  imagine  the  deputy  chief  under  Chief  Noble  engaging  in 
anything  like  that  today.  The  thing  is  scarcely  thinkable. 

*  *  * 

ABOUT   ALLIGATORS. 

ONCE,  when  I  was  living  in  New  Orleans,  a  young  fellow 
asked  me  if  I  had  ever  been  on  a  big  cattle  ranch  and 
when  I  told  him  I  had  he  offered  to  bet  me  that  I  could 
not  tell  how  a  cow,  that  was  lying  down,  got  up.  I  had  seen 
thousands  of  them  get  up,  but  when  I  got  to  thinking  about  it, 
I  could  not  tell  him  to  save  my  life.  Then  he  asked  me  how 
a  horse  got  up,  and  I  could  not  tell  that,  either.  Since  that 
day  I  have  always  known  that  a  cow  gets  on  her  hind  feet  first 
and  a  horse  gets  on  his  front  feet  first.  That  shows  how  little 
we  observe  things  that  occur  constantly  under  our  very  noses. 
Now,  while  most  of  the  Chronicle  readers  may  be  better  in- 
formed on  cows  and  horses  than  I  was,  I  am  willing  to  take  a 
small  amount  that  not  half  a  dozen  of  them  can  tell  how  an 
alligator  opens  his  mouth.  All  the  rest  of  the  thousands  will 
say  that  he  opens  it  by  raising  his  upper  jaw;  that  the  lower 
jaw  lies  flat  on  the  ground  and  that  the  upper  one  rises.  Last 
week,  I  admit,  I  would  have  said  the  same  thing,  but  I  know 
better  now,  for  I  have  been  reading  up  on  alligators,  and  the 
natural  history  sharp  whose  book  I  read  says  that  the  alliga- 
tor's jaws  open  far  back,  even  behind  the  ears,  where  they  are 
hinged  or  articulated  into  each  other.  The  effect  is  that  when 
the  alligator  opens  his  mouth  his  neck  becomes  somewhat  bent 
upward,  giving  him  the  appearance  of  having  moved  the  upper 
instead  of  the  lower  jaw.  That  was  a  new  one  on  me,  and  I 


78 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

made  up  my  mind  to  spring  it  on  the  public  the  first  chance  I 
got. 

Now,  speaking  of  alligators  reminds  me  that  there  used  to  be 
quantities  of  them  in  Buffalo  Bayou.  I  don't  know  how  many  Mr. 
Erickson,  the  father  of  Otto,  killed  in  his  day,  but  I  know  of 
several,  and  one  of  the  largest  I  ever  saw  was  killed  by  him 
about  where  the  Louisiana  bridge  now  stands.  It  was  so  large 
that  it  attracted  public  attention,  just  as  that  whale  did  a  year 
or  two  ago.  He  cut  the  head  off,  had  it  prepared  and  shipped  it 
to  a  museum  in  Germany.  I  remember  seeing  the  head.  It  was 
in  a  large  wash-tub  and  stuck  up  two  or  three  feet  above  the  top 
of  the  tub.  The  old  man  was  a  dead-shot  with  a  rifle,  and  it 
took  a  dead-shot  to  kill  an  alligator  with  the  guns  of  that  day, 
for  the  only  way  to  kill  them  was  by  shooting  them  in  the  eye. 
He  could  do  that  and  he  rarely  failed  to  get  them  on  the  first 
shot. 

I  heard  stories  of  men  being  eaten  by  alligators  when  I  was  a 
boy,  and  I  believe  there  are  one  or  two  well  authenticated  cases 
reported.  We  boys  paid  no  attention  to  the  stories,  however, 
and  went  in  swimming  just  as  though  there  were  no  such  thing 
in  the  world  as  an  alligator.  The  very  evening  Mr.  Erichson 
killed  that  big  one  the  bayou  was  full  of  boys  not  a  hundred  feet 
from  where  he  had  killed  it.  But  boys  are  hardly  responsible 
for  their  fool  capers. 

On  one  occasion  I  witnessed  a  funny  scene  in  which  a  10-foot 
alligator  was  one  of  the  principal  actors.  I  was  living  out  in  the 
country  with  Louis  Hillendahl.  There  was,  and  is  yet,  I  believe, 
a  large  German  settlement  out  there.  One  of  the  great  summer 
sports  was  getting  up  a  big  fish  fry.  We  had  a  great  big  seine 
and  caught  our  fish  that  way.  A  week  or  two  ahead  a  lot  of  the 
boys  would  select  a  nice  stretch  in  Buffalo  Bayou,  and  would 
strip  off,  get  in  and  remove  every  snag.  That  was  to  give  the 
seine  fair  play.'  The  work  was  done  some  time  before  the  sein- 
ing so  as  to  allow  the  frightened  fish  to  return  to  their  accus- 
tomed haunts.  When  everything  was  ready,  on  some  bright 
Sunday  morning,  the  whole  neighborhood  would  turn  out  and 
meet  at  the  bayou.  There  were  men,  women  and  children  and 
everybody.  The  ladies  would  make  fires  and  prepare  for  a  big 
dinner  while  half  a  dozen  young  fellows  would  retire  to  the 
woods  and  don  old  clothes.  These  were  the  seiners.  When 
everything  was  ready  a  whoop  would  announce  that  the  seining 
was  about  to  begin,  and  a  rush  would  be  made  for  the  bank 
of  the  bayou,  to  watch  the  fun. 

Usually  a  space  of  a  hundred  yards  or  more  would  be  cleared 
of  snags,  so  as  to  catch  as  many  fish  as  possible. 

One  Sunday  morning  the  seining  was  going  on  finely.  Two  or 
three  hauls  had  been  made,  and  quite  a  number  of  fish  had  been 
caught.  Finally,  just  at  a  bend  in  the  bayou,  the  seine  became 
entangled  in  a  deep  hole.  There  was  a  big  discussion,  and  the 
boys  who  had  done  the  cleaning  were  roundly  abused  for  having 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 79 

left  such  a  snag  there.  Effort  was  made  to  clear  the  seine  by 
pulling  it  sideways,  backwards  and  every  other  way,  but  it  was 
no  use,  it  was  evidently  badly  entangled.  One  or  two  of  the  boys 
volunteered  to  dive  down  and  untangle  it.  It  was  rather  deep, 
so  none  of  them  stayed  down  very  long.  Finally  one  fellow, 
whose  sweetheart  was  watching  him  from  the  bank,  took  a  long 
breath  and  went  down  with  the  evident  intention  of  getting  the 
seine  free,  even  if  he  had  to  haul  the  log  out  that  was  holding  it. 
He  was  down  less  time  than  any  of  the  others,  for  he  came  up 
like  a  rocket,  rose  away  up  out  of  the  water  and  made  for  the 
shore,  shouting  at  the  top  of  his  voice  the  German  equivalent 
for  alligator.  He  hit  the  bank,  scrambled  out,  and  when  he  got 
breath  enough  to  talk  we  learned  that  he  had  gone  down  and 
actually  seized  the  alligator  round  the  neck  before  he  realized 
what  it  was.  When  he  did  find  out  what  he  was  hugging  he 
turned  loose  in  a  hurry  and  came  out  like  a  tornado. 

Then  you  never  heard  so  much  excited  talk.  Every  man  there 
knew  so  well  what  should  be  done  to  capture  that  alligator  that 
no  one  would  listen  to  what  anybody  else  said.  Talk  about  the 
French  being  excitable,  why  a  crowd  of  Germans  with  an  alligator 
tangled  up  in  their  only  seine  10  or  15  feet  under  the  water  can 
give  the  Frenchmen  cards  and  spades  and  then  beat  them  out. 
Finally  it  was  determined  that  the  only  way  to  get  the  alligator 
out  was  to  pull  him  out,  and  the  whole  crowd  set  to  work  doing 
so.  It  was  hard  work,  for  at  first  the  alligator  refused  to  budge. 
At  last  they  got  him  started  and  you  could  hear  those  fellows 
shout  for  a  mile  or  two.  At  last  they  got  him  safely  out  on  the 
bank,  and  he  was  fighting  mad.  He  had  not  torn  the  seine  while 
he  was  in  the  water,  but  he  proceeded  to  rip  it  up  right  and  left 
now  that  he  was  on  land.  Everybody  who  had  an  ax  or  hatchet 
took  a  dig  at  him,  and  that  part  of  the  seine  which  he  had  not 
destroyed  was  finished  by  the  axmen.  It  was  a  wild,  howling 
crowd  that  surrounded  that  alligator,  and  if  he  had  been  the  least 
sensitive  he  would  have  died  of  fright  long  before  they  succeeded 
in  killing  him.  No  pack  of  coon  dogs  ever  made  such  a  racket 
about  a  fighting  coon  as  those  fellows  made  around  that  alli- 
gator. After  it  was  all  over  they  realized  what  foolish  capers 
they  had  cut  and  laughed  heartily  at  each  other's  antics.  It 
was  the  best  and  most  surprising  seining  party  I  ever  attended. 

There  are  no  alligators  in  Buffalo  Bayou  today,  at  least  not 
in  the  city  limits,  but  I  suspect  that  if  a  careful  search  were 
made  one  or  two  might  be  found  up  near  the  head  of  the  bayou. 
The  little  lakes  and  ponds  over  in  San  Jacinto  bottom  were  full 
of  them  a  few  years  ago,  and  on  one  occasion  I  killed  four  or 
five  without  hardly  getting  out  of  my  tracks.  After  doing  such 
excellent  shooting,  I  shot  at  a  water  moccasin  five  times  at  a 
distance  of  ten  feet  and  missed  him  every  time.  The  only  way 
I  can  account  for  it  is  that  the  snake  got  on  my  nerves,  for  I 
dread  even  the  sight  of  one. 


80 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

COLONEL  CY.  S.  OBERLY. 

IN  the  early  '80's  there  were  a  lot  of  first-class  newspaper 
men  in  Hbuston.  The  Galveston  News  had  a  very  large 
circulation  here  and  generally  kept  two  or  three  men  in 
their  Houston  branch  office.  Then  there  were  two  or  three 
pretty  good  local  papers  here  and  all  these  had  good  men  on 
them.  There  were  good  reporters,  bad  reporters  and  a  good 
sprinkling  of  amateur  reporters.  Among  all  the  distinguished 
ones  there  was  one  who  stood  out  prominently  as  both  a  good 
newspaper  man,  fine  writer  and  gentleman,  Colonel  Cy.  S.  Ober- 
ly.  All  those  who  were  so  fortunate  as  to  know  the  colonel  will 
agree  with  me  in  saying  that  he  was  a  man  and  gentleman  from 
the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot. 

The  colonel  was  more  of  an  author  than  a  newspaper  man. 
He  was  a  good  writer,  but  not  a  good  news-gatherer,  but  he 
never  got  left  in  the  shuffle,  for  the  other  boys  always  looked 
out  for  his  interest.  He  wrote  books,  poems  and  newspaper 
verses  and  paid  more  attention  to  the  trimmings  than  to  the 
serious  things  of  life.  He  had  been  a  Texas  ranger  and  had 
served  on  the  Rio  Grande  for  about  three  years,  so  he  had  a 
rich  fund  of  personal  experience  to  draw  on  for  his  books,  which 
were  about  Mexican  outlaws  and  wild  Indians.  They  used  to  tell 
an  amusing  story  on  the  colonel,  but  always  when  they  were 
certain  he  was  absent.  He  had  just  issued  one  of  his  thrilling 
frontier  stories  and  all  his  friends  in  Memphis,  where  he  was 
living,  were  reading  and  praising  it.  There  was  an  old  printer 
working  on  the  morning  paper  who  was  considered  the  best 
critic  in  the  country,  for  no  other  reason  in  the  world  than  that 
he  said  he  was  himself.  He  criticised  everything  from  the  Bible 
down.  All  newspaper  men  will  recognize  him,  for  there  was 
never  a  newspaper  office  that  did  not  have  among  its  printers 
one  of  this  type.  They  are  as  necessary  to  a  composing  room 
as  the  printers'  devil  and  the  dirty  towel.  One  morning  Colonel 
Oberly  was  taking  an  ice  cream  soda  and  discussing  his  last 
novel  with  the  barkeep,  when  the  latter  said:  "Colonel,  here 

comes  old  ;  hide  behind  the  counter  and  I  will  ask  him 

about  your  book,  and  then  you  can  get  his  real  opinion,  which 
I  know  will  be  flattering  to  you." 

The  colonel  thought  it  a  good  idea  and  hopped  behind  the 
counter.  When  the  critic  came  in  and  had  his  whiskey  set  out 
in  front  of  him  the  barkeep  asked  him,  casually,  if  he  had  read 
Colonel  Oberly's  last  novel. 

"Yes,"  growled  the  old  printer,  "and  he  stole  every  line  of  it 
from  Ned  Buntline." 

That  was  more  than  the  colonel  could  stand,  and,  yelling: 
"You  liar"  he  rose  from  behind  the  counter  with  the  ice  pick 
in  his  hand  and  took  after  the  critic.  It  was  a  hot  chase.  The 
critic  got  away,  but  lost  his  drink.  There  were  two  shocked 
and  surprised  individuals  that  morning.  Colonel  Oberly  expected 
to  hear  all  kinds  of  praise  for  his  book  and  got  the  opposite, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 81 

while  the  old  printer  expected  to  condemn  the  book  in  a  breath 
and  take  his  drink  in  peace. 

Colonel  Oberly  had  one  great  virtue.  Whatever  he  wrote 
for  a  newspaper  he  held  himself  responsible  for  and  never 
sought  to  hide  behind  the  management  or  any  of  the  higher 
editors.  I  will  never  forget  the  advice  he  gave  me  when  I  was 
made  managing  editor  of  the  Galveston  News. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  will  be  called  on  to  pass  on  many  things 
that  affect  character  and  interests.  It  is  a  big  responsibility 
and  I  want  to  tell  you  the  easiest  way  to  meet  it.  When  you 
strike  anything  questionable,  read  it  over  carefully  and  then 
go  out  and  take  a  walk,  thinking  it  over.  When  you  get  back, 
read  it  again  and  then  ask  yourself,  'Am  I  willing  to  fight  for 
this  in  case  a  row  is  made?'  If  you  can't  answer  in  the  affirm- 
ative throw  the  stuff  in  the  waste  basket."  There  is  a  world 
o,f  wisdom  in  that  advice. 

What  made  me  think  of  Colonel  Oberly  this  morning  was 
seeing  in  the  papers  where  the  printers  were  preparing  their 
burial  place  in  such  an  elegant  way.  The  colonel's  name  was 
mentioned  among  those  buried  in  Glenwood  Cemetery.  He  died 
suddenly,  I  think,  in  1886.  It  was  awful  weather  in  February 
and  it  had  been  raining  for  weeks.  Houston  was  a  sea  of  mud 
and  after  getting  off  the  few  paved  stress  navigation  was  im- 
possible. The  road  to  Glenwood  was  impassable  and  it  was 
necessary  to  use  the  street  cars  for  the  funeral.  The  coffin  was 
taken  over  to  the  Central  Depot  and  there  transferred  to  a 
street  car  drawn  by  mules.  Other  cars  took  the  places  of  car- 
riages and  thus  the  first  and  probably  the  last  street  car  funeral 
in  Houston  took  place. 

*  *  * 

HONEST    BOB    WILSON.  . 

HONEST  BOB"  WILSON  has  never  received  that  justice 
from  the  writers  of  history  to  which  his  eminent  services 
to  the  colonists,  to  the  Republic,  and  to  the  young  state 
of  Texas  entitle  him.  He  was  one  of  the  remarkable  men  of 
the  early  days  and  it  is  a  shame  that  he  is  not  better  remem- 
bered. 

Old  Houstonians  remember  him,  not  so  much  for  anything  that 
they  knew  of  his  achievements,  as  from  the  fact  that  he  was 
the  father  of  the  Hon.  James  T.  D.  Wilson,  the  first  mayor  chosen 
by  the  people  after  reconstruction  days,  when  the  Democrats 
gained  control  of  the  state.  The  younger  generation  know  of 
him  as  being  the  grandfather  of  the  Wilson  boys,  who  have 
done  so  much  for  the  growth  and  advancement  of  Houston  and 
who,  today,  have  their  shoulders  to  the  wheel,  working  for  an 
even  greater  Houston. 

It  is  scarcely  credible  that  a  man  of  such  accomplishments 
should  have  his  memory  perpetuated  only  through  the  lesser 
accomplishments  of  his  descendants,  yet  that  is  literally  true 
of  "Honest  Bob"  Wilson. 


82 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

His  title  of  "Honest  Bob"  was  not  given  him  in  derision,  as 
is  the  case  so  often  nowadays,  but  was  the  result  of,  and  the 
expression  of,  genuine  admiration  for  him  by  his  fellow  citizens. 

I  have  heard  my  grandfather  tell  the  story  often.  Bob  was 
a  member  of  the  senate  of  the  Republic  of  Texas.  He  believed 
in  publicity  and  was  silly  enough,  measured  by  later  day  stand- 
ards, to  think  that  the  people  had  a  right  to  know  something 
of  everything  their  servants  did.  The  members  of  the  Texas 
congress  knew  more  about  fighting  than  they  did  about  par- 
liamentary matters. 

Soon  after  congress  assembled  it  became  necessary  to  hold 
an  executive  session  and  those  who  knew  something  about  such 
matters  warned  the  members  that  nothing  must  be  divulged 
about  any  matter  discussed.  It  was  impressed  on  them  that 
the  meeting  was  to  be  a  secret  one,  and  it  was  also  impressed 
on  them  that  any  member  who  broke  the  rule  of  silence  would 
be  severely  punished.  "Honest  Bob"  listened  to  all  that  was 
said  but  did  not  say  anything. 

It  was  in  1838  during  the  Lamar  administration  and  Burnet, 
being  vice  president,  presided  over  the  senate.  Burnet  had  a 
scheme  by  which  the  bonds  of  the  new  Republic  of  Texas  were 
to  be  exchanged  for  Sputh  Carolina  state  money,  and  he  was 
urging  the  adoption  of  a  resolution  by  the  senate  that  would 
enable  him  to  carry  out  his  plan. 

"Honest  Bob"  owned  a  line  of  sailng  boats  plying  between 
Harrisburg  and  New  Orleans,  and  through  his  captains  he  had 
heard  that  the  South  Carolina  money  was  of  little  value.  He 
never  had  agreed  with  Burnett  on  any  question,  so  he  made  a 
most  vicious  attack  on  his  plan. 

It  was  during  an  executive  session  of  the  senate  that  the  ar- 
gument and  outbreak  occurred.  The  most  unparliamentary  lan- 
guage was  used,  and  almost  a  free  fight  occurred.  When  the 
session  closed  "Honest  Bob"  went  out  on  Main  Street  and  told 
everybody  he  met  what  had  taken  place  and  what  the  vice 
president  was  trying  to  do. 

When  the  senate  heard  what  he  was  doing  the  sergeant-at- 
arms  was  sent  after  him.  He  was  arrested,  brought  before  the 
senate  and  promptly  expelled  from  that  body. 

A  special  election  was  ordered  by  the  senate  to  fill  the  va- 
cancy caused  by  his  expulsion.  Three  days  later  the  election 
was  held  and  "Honest  Bob"  was;  re-elected  to  the  senate  by 
practically  a  unanimous  vote. 

The  people  did  not  stop  at  merely  electing  him,  but  when  the 
result  was  known,  they  took  him  on  their  shoulders  and  bore  him 
back  to  the  senate  chamber  and  deposited  him  before  the  mem- 
bers with  instructions  to  leave  him  alone  and  not  try  to  expell 
him  again.  That  is,  briefly,  how  he  obtained  the  name  of  "Hon- 
est Bob." 

He  was  a  remarkable  man  and  did  much  for  the  future  great 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 83 

state.  He  was  a  progressive,  all  right.  He  came  to  Texas  in 
1828  and  settled  down  about  Harrisburg. 

He  was  a  man  of  great  energy  and  enterprise.  His  boats 
were  the  first  to  come  up  Buffalo  Bayou  and  he  made  the  first 
permanent  improvements  at  Harrisburg,  establishing  quite  an  ex- 
tensive manufacturing  plant  there.  He  ha*d  a  sawmill,  a  black- 
smith shop,  a  wagon  and  wheel  shop  and  had  several  good  houses 
for  his  workmen. 

When  the  revolution  broke  out  he  contributed  largely  to  the 
cause,  and  Santa  Anna  made  him  pay  dearly  for  his  patriotism, 
for  he  burned  up  everything  he  could  lay  his  hands  on. 

The  war  ruined  him,  but  he  would  not  stay  ruined,  and  while 
the  Republic  of  Texas  and  the  State  of  Texas,  with  the  prover- 
bial ingratitude  of  republics,  failed  to  reimburse  him  for  his 
losses,  he  succeeded  in  making  what  was  considered  at  that  time 
to  be  a  modest  fortune  before  his  death. 

I  am  not  certain,  but  it  is  my  impression  that  the  body  of 
"Honest  Bob"  Wilson  lies  in  or  near  the  old  Catholic  Cemetery 
down  in  the  Second  Ward.  I  have  not  been  there  for  many 
years,  but  I  am  almost  certain  that  there  is  a  marble  shaft 
erected  over  his  grave. 


JOE  TYRAN  AND   HAMP  COOK. 

ONE  afternoon  recently  I  was  in  a  book  store  on  Main  Street 
when  a  gentleman  who  is  a  candidate  for  a  county  office 
came  in.     The  book  man  asked  him  how  his  campaign 
was  coming  on  and  the  candidate  assured  him  that  he  had  every- 
thing going  his  way  and  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  of  his  tri- 
umphant  election.     He    said   he   had   a   majority   of   the   votes 
pledged  to  him  already  and  that  they  were  coming  his  way  all 
the  time.     He  was  absolutely  confident  of  his  election. 

After  he  went  away  the  book  man  told  me  that  the  chap  would 
come  out  about  fourth  in  the  race.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
local  politics,  nor  about  the  candidates,  either,  but  from  what  I 
know  of  elections  in  the  past  it  will  not  surprise  me  if  the  book 
man's  prediction  proves  to  be  true.  I  could  never  understand 
why  it  is  so,  but  it  is  true,  nevertheless,  that  so  soon  as  a  man 
becomes  a  candidate  for  office  he  is  seized  with  a  species  of 
insanity  which  may  be  called  cacoethes  credenti,  or,  in  plain 
English,  he  becomes  a  sucker  and  believes  everything  that  the 
voters  tell  him.  He  may  be  a  hard-headed  business  man  and  one 
who  weighs  everything  and  gives  it  its  true  value,  but  when  he 
becomes  a  candidate  he  reverses  his  methods  and  becomes  the 
most  credulous  being  on  earth.  It  is  strange,  but  it  is  true.  Per- 
haps the  candidate  loses  no  advantage  by  becoming  that  way, 
for  each  one  of  his  opponents  is  equally  guilty. 

About  the  most  amusing  case  of  this  kind  of  credulity  that 
ever  came  under  my  personal  observation  occurred  several  years 
ago  here  in  Houston.  The  Harris  County  Democratic  convention 


84 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

was  being  held  in  the  opera  house;  that  was  located  in  the  city 
hall.  I  met  Joe  Tyran,  who  invited  me  to  go  up  in  the  hall.  He 
told  me  he  was  going  to  be  nominated  for  one  of  the  big  county 
offices  on  the  first  ballot;  that  he  had  prepared  a  fine  speech 
and  wanted  me  to  hear  him.  Of  course,  I  went.  On  the  way  he 
told  me  that  taking  the  ballot  was  a  mere  formality,  as  he  had 
a  sure  thing,  and  would  get  the  vote  of  nearly  every  delegate 
in  the  convention.  When  we  got  to  the  hall  Joe  and  I  went  into 
one  of  the  front  boxes,  so  he  could  step  right  out  on  the  stage 
when  the  time  came  for  him  to  return  thanks  to  the  delegates. 
We  had  not  been  there  long  before  the  time  came  for  balloting 
for  Joe's  office.  One  or  two  nominating  speeches  were  made 
and  then  the  voting  began.  The  result  knocked  me  and  Joe 
out  of  the  box,  for  out  of  the  86  votes  in  the  convention  Joe  got 
only  three.  He  looked  at  me  and  I  looked  at  him  and  then  he 
crawled  out  of  the  box  onto  the  stage  and  raised  his  hand.  There 
was  a  dead  calm.  Joe  advanced  to  the  front  of  the  stage  and 
said:  "Mr.  Chairman:  I  want  to  say  that  there  are  83  of  the 
biggest  liars  in  this  hall  that  God  ever  let  live." 

In  a  moment  bedlam  broke  loose.  Delegates  were  on  their  feet 
in  all  parts  of  the  hall  gesticulating  and  shouting,  while  every- 
body was  yelling  and  hooting.  One  little  fellow  clear  back  in 
the  rear  of  the  hall,  who  had  a  voice  like  a  fog-horn,  managed  to 
make  himself  heard  and. finally  the  others  stopped  their  racket 
long  enough  for  him  to  speak. 

"Mr.  Chairman,"  he  said.  "I  object  to  any  such  language 
being — "  but  he  got  no  further  than  that.  Joe  did  not  know  who 
he  was,  but  he  shot  in  the  dark.  "Sit  down,  you  infernal  scoun- 
drel. You  offered  to  sell  out  to  me  this  morning  for  twenty 
dollars." 

Now  everybody  in  the  house  knew  this  charge  was  absurd  and 
groundless,  and  that  Joe  was  saying  what  he  did  simply  because 
he  was  mad,  but  the  crowd  enjoyed  the  situation  and  raised  a 
yell  that  could  have  been  heard  for  blocks  away.  The  little  fel- 
low could  do  nothing  and  realizing  his  helplessness,  he  collapsed. 
It  took  a  long  time  to  restore  order  and  get  the  convention  down 
to  business  again.  When  things  got  quiet  I  left,  feeling  that  I 
had  been  more  than  repaid  for  my  trouble  in  going  up  to  hear 
Joe's  speech,  even  if  the  one  he  delivered  had  been  a  substitute. 

Joe  Tyran  was  a  politician  from  away  back— sometimes.  He 
was  a  politician  all  the  time,  but  a  mighty  poor  one  occasionally. 
He  had  an  impolitic  way  of  letting  his  personal  friendships  in- 
fluence him  and  you  know  no  successful  politician  can  do  that. 
From  that  failing  Joe  made  a  poor  politician.  He  was  a  splendid 
fellow  and  everybody  loved  him.  He  would  get  to  be  so  popular 
that  it  would  actually  hurt,  and  then,  acting  on  impulse,  he 
would  do  something  that  would  throw  all  the  fat  in  the  fire. 
That  was  only  when  he  was  a  candidate  himself.  When  he  was 
working  for  a  friend  he  could  do  much  that  was  valuable  and  he 
always  could  be  counted  on  to  do  it.  Joe  sure  was  impulsive, 
and  I  can  prove  that  by  Col.  Hamp  Cook.  There  is  a  good  story 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 85 

here  and  I  am  going  to  tell  it,  even  if  I  have  to  dodge  Col.  Hamp 
Cook  for  the  next  month  for  doing  so. 

On  one  occasion  there  was  a  red-hot  campaign  on  and  Joe  and 
Hamp  were  taking  an  active  part  in  it.  They  boarded  the  old 
mule  car  to  go  down  to  the  Union  Depot  on  Congress  Avenue. 
On  the  way  down  they  jumped  off  the  car  and  went  into  a  grocery 
store  to  get  some  cigars.  They  were  standing  talking  to  the  man 
when  a  big  yellow  negro  came  in.  Joe  looked  at  the  negro  for 
a  moment  and  then,  without  a  word,  hauled  off  and  smashed 
him  in  the  face.  The  negro  did  not  understand  what  it  was 
about,  but  he  promptly  knocked  Joe  down  and  mounted  him. 
That  was  more  than  Colonel  Cook  could  stand,  so  he  batted  the 
negro,  knocking  him  off  Joe  and  engaging  him  himself.  The  ne- 
gro had  the  Colonel  on  his  back  the  next  minute  and  proceeded 
to  beat  him  up  a  whole  lot.  Hamp  fought  and  fought,  but  he 
also  yelled  for  Joe  to  help  him  out.  Joe  had  gotten  up  and 
stood  there  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  shouting: 

"Give  him  hell,  Hamp.     Give  him  hell." 

"Pull  him  off,  I  tell  you.  Don't  you  see  he's  giving  me  hell?" 
replied  Hamp. 

"No,  he's  not,"  replied  Joe.     "Keep  it  up,  you've  got  him." 

Finally  the  store  man  pulled  the  negro  off  Hamp  and  restored 
order  for  a  moment,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  Hamp  forgot 
all  about  the  negro  in  his  anxiety  to  get  at  Joe.  The  man  had 
hard  work  to  prevent  another  fight,  but  finally  restored  order. 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  that  convention  and  that  battle  royal 
until  that  candidate  came  in  the  book  store  the  other  day  and 
set  the  current  of  my  thoughts  backward  to  the  days  when  there 
were  more  things  happening  in  Houston  that  had  life  and  vim 
in  them,  in  a  day,  than  happen  now  in  a  month. 

*  *  * 

DESPERADOES  AS  SOLDIERS. 

HOUSTON  has  introduced  some  remarkable  characters  in 
the  past,  and  some  of  her  sons  have  established  enviable 
reputations  in  the  world.  There  are  others  of  her  sons 
who  have  made  names  for  themselves  as  great  warriors  in  pri- 
vate life;  in  a  word,  as  desperadoes,  and  others  as  near-des- 
peradoes. In  the  early  days  each  community  had  its  "bad  man," 
who  was  pointed  at  with  something  like  pride,  for  he  was  sure 
to  shed  a  kind  of  luster  on  the  community.  Houston  had  sev- 
eral of  these  "bad  men,"  gun  fighters  or  whatever  is  the  proper 
name  for  them.  There  was  Kane  Norton,  who  was  killed  in  the 
battle  of  Mansfield,  over  in  Louisiana;  Tom  Clarke,  who  .was 
knifed  to  death  by  a  dozen  Mexicans  in  the  market  house  in 
San  Antonio,  after  he  had  killed  several  of  them  and  exhausted 
all  the  shots  of  his  six-shooter,  and  last,  but  not  least,  Buck 
Stacey,  of  whom  I  am  going  to  speak  at  more  length  now.  Buck 
did  not  have  the  glory  of  dying  on  the  field  of  battle  or  of  dying 
amid  the  bodies  of  those  who  had  fallen  before  his  deadly  pistol, 


86         TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

but  he  did  have  the  honor  of  being  the  first  man  condemned  to 
death  by  a  court-martial  and  executed  on  this  side  of  the  river 
during  our  great  war.  But  we  will  come  to  that  later. 

Buck  was  a  "throw-back"  if  ever  there  was  one.  His  father 
died  when  he  was  quite  young  and  he  was  raised  by  his  mother, 
a  God-fearing,  praying,  Christian  woman.  His  home  life  and 
surroundings  were  such  as  should  have  produced  a  preacher  or 
at  least  a  Sunday  school  superintendent,  but  they  produced,  if 
they  had  anything  at  all  to  do  with  it,  something  exactly  the 
opposite.  He  was  a  magnificent  looking  young  man.  Nearly  six 
feet  high,  hair  and  mustache  as  black  as  the  raven's  wing,  while 
his  eyes  were  those  of  the  typical  desperado,  steel  blue  and  as 
clear  as  crystal.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow  every  inch  of  him, 
and  yet,  strange  to  say,  he  was  no  lady  killer  and  avoided  female 
company. 

Buck's  first  appearance  on  the  stage  as  a  shooting  man  was  a 
surprise  to  everybody,  for  he  made  his  debut  suddenly  and  un- 
announced. Mr.  T.  T.  Thompson,  the  great  jeweler,  who  after- 
ward moved  to  Galveston,  had  a  large  jewelry  store  on  the  north- 
east corner  of  Main  and  Congress  Avenue.  He  brought  a  young 
fellow  from  New  York  to  clerk  for  him.  This  young  man  was 
one  of  the  "flip"  kind  and  had  more  impudence  than  sense.  One 
day  Buck's  mother  went  to  the  store  to  make  a  purchase  and 
could  not  find  exactly  what  she  wanted.  The  young  clerk  grew 
impatient  and  finally  got  so  impertinent  that  she  left  the  store, 
intending  to  complain  to  Mr.  Thompson  when  she  met  him.  At 
dinner  she  mentioned  the  incident,  not  dreaming  that  Buck 
would  act  in  the  matter.  Buck  ate  his  dinner,  took  his  hat  and 
strolled  down  to  Thompson's.  He  walked  in  and  so  soon  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  young  fellow  he  opened  fire  on  him.  Buck 
had  only  two  derringers.  His  first  shot  missed  and  the  young 
fellow,  screaming  like  a  scared  Indian,  attempted  to  get  upstairs 
behind  a  large  jewel  case.  Buck  saw  his  victim  was  about  to 
escape,  so  he  shot  at  him  through  the  case,  wrecking  watches, 
brooches  and  everything  else  in  the  line  of  fire.  He  missed 
again,  but  he  had  scared  the  young  man  so  badly  that  he  rushed 
upstairs,  escaped  through  a  window,  slid  down  a  post  and  made 
good  his  escape.  It  was  said  that  he  ran  all  the  way  to  Harris- 
burg.  Whatever  he  did,  he  never  showed  up  in  the  store  again.- 
Buck's  mother  paid  all  the  damage  that  had  been  done  and  the 
matter  was  dropped.  I  doubt  very  much  if  the  courts  would 
have  noticed  the  case  if  she  had  not  paid  anything,  for  in  the 
early  days  it  was  hard  to  convict  a  man  for  resenting  imperti- 
nence to  his  mother  or  to  any  other  lady.  That  affair  died  out, 
but  Buck  had  had  a  taste  of  "high  life"  and  he  liked  it,  so  he 
went  from  bad  to  worse,  became  a  professional  gambler  and 
was  a  "bad  man."  His  greatest  failing  was  his  quick  and  un- 
governable temper.  That  was  a  bad  asset  for  a  desperado  and 
would  have  led  to  his  undoing  in  the  end  had  he  been  permitted 
to  run  his  course.  Coolness  and  quiet  decision  were  the  main- 
stays of  all  the  desperadoes  I  have  ever  known,  and  I  have  known 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 87 

several  of  the  most  prominent  of  them.  Buck's  passion  always 
got  the  best  of  him  and  he  was  always  at  a  disadvantage  in  con- 
sequence. 

When  the  war  broke  out  there  were  several  companies  organ 
ized  in  Houston  and  at  nearby  points.  These  troops  were  for 
service  along  the  Rio  Grande  and  in  New  Mexico  and  in  Arizona. 
Buck  was  among  the  first  to  volunteer.  I  am  not  certain,  but  I 
think  he  and  Frank  Le  Mott  were  in  Captain  I.  C.  Stafford's 
company,  which  was  the  first  company  to  leave  Houston.  There 
were  a  lot  of  mighty  good  men  in  that  company  and  there  were 
some  pretty  tough  ones,  too.  Among  them  were  several  gam-' 
biers  and  desperate  men  who  had  always  been  accustomed  to 
have  their  way  about  everything,  and  to  act  as  they  pleased. 

These  could  not  understand  the  necessary  restraints  that  were 
placed  on  a  soldier,  and  before  a  week  had  expired  they  were 
for  kicking  over  the  traces.  The  company,  with  other  com- 
panies, was  placed  under  command  of  General  John  R.  Baylor, 
a  born  soldier  and  fighter.  He  started  in  at  once  to  establish 
discipline,  but  he  had  hard  work.  The  men  gambled  constantly 
and  there  were  several  shooting  scrapes  among  them.  Nearly 
every  day  somebody  got  shot.  Finally  General  Baylor  prepared 
an  order  which  he  had  posted  and  also  read  at  dress  parade, 
announcing  that  the  next  man  who  was  aggressor  in  a  shooting 
scrape  would  be  tried  by  drumhead  court-martial  and  shot.  That 
very  evening  Buck  Stacey  shot  the  sergeant  of  the  company. 
He  was  arrested  and  put  in  the  guard  house.  That  night  the 
sergeant  died.  The  next  morning  Baylor  called  a  drumhead 
court-martial,  Buck  was  tried,  convicted  and  shot/  When  he 
first  realized  that  Baylor  was  in  earnest  and  was  going  to  shoot 
him  sure  enough  his  nerve  gave  way  and  he  broke  down.  Then 
when  he  saw  his  end  was  inevitable  he  braced  up  and  when  the 
fatal  moment  came  he  faced  the  firing  squad  as  coolly  and  brave- 
ly as  if  he  were  not  the  least  interested  in  what  they  were  about 
to  do.  He  was  ten  times  more  self-possessed  than  any  one  on 
the  ground,  and  died  with  his  eyes  open,  facing  his  executioners. 
He  refused  to  let  them  blind  his  eyes,  but  stood  calmly  facing 
the  firing  squad. 

That  execution  brought  order  out  of  chaos  and  established 
discipline  in  a  way  that  nothing  else  could  have  done.  The  men 
realized  that  when  Baylor  said  anything  he  meant  it  and  that 
if  he  said  he  would  punish  certain  offenses  with  death  he  would 
keep  his  word  if  he  had  to  shoot  every  man  in  the  regiment. 
The  command  became  one  of  the  best  in  the  trans-Mississippi 
department,  and  did  fine  work  for  the  four  years  of  the  war. 

Tom  Clarke,  who  was  killed  in  San  Antonio,  enlisted  in  the 
Bayou  City  Guards,  the  crack  infantry  company  from  Houston 
that  formed  part  of  the  Fifth  Texas  regiment  of  Hood's  Brigade 
in  Virginia.  How  Clarke  ever  got  out  of  the  company  and  back 
to  Texas  I  never  knew.  He  did  get  back  and  afterwards  joined 
Captain  W.  M.  Stafford's  company  of  artillery.  He  had  not  been 
with  that  company  long  before  he  slipped  into  San  Antonio, 


88        TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

resented  a  Mexican's  slapping  a  woman,  and  killed  the  fellow, 
who  made  at  him  with  a  knife.  Then  a  whole  crowd  of  Mexicans 
attacked  him.  He  killed  them  as  long  as  his  pistol  held  out 
and  when  he  had  fired  his  last  shot  he  hurled  the  empty  gun 
at  them  and  was  then  cut  to  pieces  by  the  survivors.  It  was  re- 
ported that  he  killed  six  of  them  before  they  got  him. 

Kane  Norton,  the  other  distinguished  Houstonian,  was  not  so 
fortunate  in  the  mode  of  his  death.  He  was  killed  by  a  Yankee 
drug  clerk,  just  at  the  close  of  the  battle  of  Mansfield.  He 
rushed  into  the  drug  store  and.  the  clerk,  being  badly  rattled, 
thought  Kane  was  going  to  kill  him  so  he  shot  him  dead.  The 
next  moment  Kane's  comrades  entered  and  slew  the  clerk.  If 
Kane  had  known  that  he  was  going  to  be  wiped  out,  not  by  a 
desperado  or  soldier,  but  by  a  little,  panic-stricken  drug  clerk, 
he  would  have  been  terribly  humiliated. 
*  *  * 

"BUD"  RANDOLPH   A  SCIENTIST. 

IF  ANYONE  thinks  that  the  Houston  Press  Club  is  not  an 
interesting  place  and  full  of  surprises,  that  one  is  badly 
mistaken.     One  can  always  meet  there  someone  who  knows 
something  about  everything  on  earth.    There  is  where  the  sur- 
prises come  in. 

I  came  in  contact  with  one  of  these  surprises  the  other  night 
when  I  discovered  that  "Bud"  Randolph  is  one  of  the  most  pro- 
found entomologists  in  the  state  and  that  he  has  devoted  many 
years  to  the  study  of  bugs. 

He  can  tell  you,  offhand,  without  the  least  hesitation,  the 
official  names  of  bed  bugs,  cockroaches,  boll  weevils,  tumble- 
bugs  and  of  more  kinds  of  beetles,  better  than  any  fellow  I  ever 
met.  He  is  a  wonder. 

Having  tackled  and  mastered  bugology,  Bud  evidently  looked 
about  for  new  fields  to  conquer  and  took  up  the  study  of  natural 
history.  His  knowledge  of  rats,  owls,  skunks,  cats,  cur  dogs,  et 
omne  genus,  is  equal  to  his  knowledge  of  bugs.  The  best  part 
of  the  thing  is  that  he  does  not  have  to  be  "drawn  out."  The 
other  night  someone  mentioned  a  night  made  wretched  by  bed- 
bugs and  in  a  moment  "Bud"  had  the  floor. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "there  is  a  most  interesting  member  of  the  bug 
family.  In  my  opinion  the  bed-bug,  or  more  properly  speaking 
the  coccyclus  indica  myonsims,  is  the  most  intelligent  and 
thoughtful  member  of  the  dryonian  family.  He  has  sense  like 
folks;  he  takes  no  chances  and  makes  careful  calculation  before 
making  an  attack.  He  hides  out  when  a  light  is  on  but  comes 
to  .the  front  the  moment  ft  is  turned  out.  He  knows  what  he  is 
doing  all  right  and  so  do  you  when  he  gets  to  work. 

"I  have  studied  him  and  his  habits  and  find  that  his  bump  of 
local  attachment  is  wonderfully  developed.  He  never  leaves  a 
place  when  once  he  establishes  himself  and  he  invites  about  a 
million  of  his  friends  to  come  and  share  the  good  thing  he  has 
found. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS      • 89 

"When  he  has  established  himself  the  only  thing  to  do  is  to 
set  fire  to  your  house,  lock  the  doors  and  windows  and  back  off 
and  watch  the  fun.  It  is  expensive,  but  it  is  the  only  sure 
remedy.  1 

"The  bed-bug  has  a  terrible  enemy  in,  the  tiger  beetle,  which* 
we  scientists  know  under  the  name  drastus  lionions  fabrista. 
He  could  and  would  eat  a  bedf ul  of  bed-bugs  ini(  two  minutes '  if 
he  could  only  get  at  them.  The  trouble  is  that  the  bed-bugs  get 
inside  the  mattresses  and  into  the  cracks  of  the  bed  while  the 
tiger  has  to  content  himself  with  a  mere  surface  examination  of 
the  bedspread. 

"Speaking  of  rats,"  continued  Bud,  though  no  one  had  men- 
tioned rats  or  even  thought  of  them,  "they  are  interesting  mem- 
bers also.  When  I  first  started  to  study  them<  I  was  prejudiced 
against  them,  but  I  soon  learned  to  admire  them,  for  they  so 
often  do  the  unexpected  and  are  constantly  springing  cute  little 
surprises. 

"I  remember  one  morning  my  lady  stenographer  pulled  open 
her  desk  drawer  to  begin  Jier  day's  work.  Without  a  word  of 
warning  seven  rats,  one  big  one  and  six  smaller  ones,  leaped  out 
on  her — we  had  to  haul  her  out  in  the  yard  and  pour  water  on 
her  to  bring  her  to. 

"Don't  you  know  those  rats  planned  the  whole  thing,  and 
laughed  over  the  success  of  the  joke  afterward?  I  feel  certain 
that  they  did. 

"When  I  built  my  residence  I  built  it  rat-proof,  of  course,  but 
the  contractors  did  not.  I  had  not  been]  there  long  before  I 
could  hear  the  rats  dancing  and  frolicking  overhead  in  my  bed- 
room. Occasionally  one  would  leave  his  place  and  fall  down 
between  the  walls.  In  trying  to  catch  himself  on  the  rough 
plastering  on  the  inside  he  would  make  a  terrible  racket.  If 
you  did  not  know/  the  space  was  too  small  you  would  think  it 
was  a  dog  or  a  calf  falling. 

"I  stood  it  as  long  as  I  could  and  then  I  got  a  (spring  trap  and 
set  it  out  in  the  hall.  The  first  night,  about  2  o'clock  there  was 
a  terrible  racket  out  there,  and  I  realized  that  I  had  got  some 
game.  I  turned  on  the  light  and  went  out. 

"By  the  time  I  got  there  the  rat  was  half  way  up  the  stair 
steps,  lugging  th,e  trap  with  him.  He  was  caught  by  one  of  his 
hind  legs.  When  he  saw  me  he  abandoned  the  idea  of  going 
up,  turned  a  summersault  and  came  down,  trap  and  all,  in  the 
middle  of  the  hall.  He  was  fighting  mad,  too,  and  made  for  me 
with  blood  in  his  eyes.  As  I  had  on  only  a  night  gown  and  was 
both  barefooted  and  barelegged  I  retired  promptly,  slamming  the 
door  as  I  did  so.  I  got  a  chunk  of  stovewood  and  then  finished 
his  ratship. 

"I  sunned  the  trap  next  day  and  set  it  again.  Nothing  doing. 
Same  result  the  next  night  and  for  several  nights  succeeding. 
I  was  congratulating  myself  on  having  scared  off  the  rats  and 


90 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

was  sleeping  peacefully  one  night  when  the  most  horrible  racket 
you  ever  heard  broke  out  in  the  hall. 

"I  realized  that  it  was  the  trap  again,  but  could  not  imagine 
what  it  had  caught.  I  could  hear  the  trap  hit  the  floor,  then 
5  it  would  hit  the  ceiling,  bound  off  to  the  wall  and  come  back  to 
the  floor  with  noise  enough  to  wake  the  dead.  It  woke  the 
whole  neighborhood  up  and  I  could  see  lights  being  turned  on 
in  half  a  dozen  nearby  houses.  They  must  have  thought  that 
I  had  caught  a  burglar  or  that  a  burglar  had  caught  me  and 
that  I  was  trying  to  get  away  from  him. 

"Finally  I  switched  on  the  light  and  peeped  out  in  the  hall. 
The  mystery  was  solved. 

"I  had  caught  my  wife's  pet  torn  cat  and  he  did  not  like  it 
either.  I  had  an  'underworld'  time  getting  him  free  from  the 
trap,  too.  I  found  a  corn  sack,  wet  it  so  it  would  stick,  and 
threw  it  over  him.  Then  I  got  him  by  the  head  and  held  him 
firmly  until  I  could  open  the  trap. 

"When  I  released  him  he  did  not  stay  to  have  his  leg  dressed, 
but  went  out  of  the  open  window  like  a  streak  of  lightning.  He 
did  not  show  up  again  for  ten  days  or  two  weeks  and  when  he 
did  come  he  examined  the  hall  thoroughly  to  see  if  it  was  safe 
for  him  to  come  in. 

"It  seems  he  entered  through  an  open  window  that  night  and 
jumped  down  right  into  the  trap.  Of  course  he  thought  it  was 
a  put  up  job  and  I  don't  think  he  ever  forgave  me  for  it. 

"Yes,  I  have  had  experience  with  skunks,  too.  We  know  them 
under  the  scientific  name  'Magnus  Odoriferous  Felenus  Ameri- 
canus,'  and  they  are  all  that  the  name  implies. 

"I  and  four  or  five  cur  dogs  had  an  experience  with  seven  of 
them  in  one  bunch.  The  dogs  corralled  them  on  the  prairie  In 
a  bunch  of  weeds  and  I  was  fool  enough  to  get  close  up  and  take 
a  shot  at  them. 

"When  I  and  the  dogs  got  through  vomiting,  I  realized  that  I 
had  killed  all  seven  of  them  and  that  they  had  nearly  killed  me 
and  the  dogs. 

"I  was  with  some  boys  in  a  wagon  but  they  made  me  walk  all 
the  way  to  town,  about  six  miles.  When  I  got  home  they  made 
me  burn  my  clothes  out  in  the  yard  and  get  under  the  hydrant 
and  scour  myself  with  lye  soap.  It  was  awful.  It  was  a  very 
cold  day  but  I  had  to  do  it  anyway." 

*  *  * 

FOUGHT  TO  THE  DEATH. 

AFTER  the  war  a  number  of  young  men  came  to  Houston, 
seeking    employment.     There    were    some    professional 
men  but  the  majority  were  young  fellows  just  out  of  the 
army,  with  nothing  to  do  and  whose  entire  capital  consisted  of 
nothing  more  tangible  than  youth   and  good   appetites.     Some 
of  them  afterward  rose  to  prominence  in  the  commercial  and 
financial  world,  while  others  drifted  away  and  were  lost  sight 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTON1ANS 91 

oft  Among  these  young  men  were  two  who  were  destined  to 
establish  a  tragic  mystery  here.  One  was  the  son  of  a  gentle- 
man of  Galveston,  a  man  of  means,  who  established  his  son  in 
business  on  Congress  Avenue,  between  Travis  and  Main  Street. 
The  young  merchant  who  was  so  fortunately  established  was 
named  Ed  Brown.  The  other  young  man  was  Ed  Prewit,  who 
had  come  to  Houston  from  somewhere  up  the  state  and  had 
secured  a  clerkship  in  the  freight  department  of  the  Houston  and 
Texas  Central  Railway  with  Mr.  J.  Waldo,  at  that  time  local 
freight  agent. 

Brown  and  Prewit  became  great  friends.  They  roomed  at  the 
same  place  and  after  business  hours  were  almost  invariably  to- 
gether. They  were  both  slender,  weighed  about  135  pounds  and 
were  between  19  and  20  years  old.  Aside  from  physical  resem- 
blance, no  two  men  could  have  been  more  unlike.  Brown  was 
full  of  life  and  animation.  He  loved  a  joke,  whether  at  his  own 
expense  or  not,  and  was  always  ready  for  fun  or  frolic.  Being 
on  "easy  street,"  he  could  afford  to  take  life  easy  and  did  so. 
Prewit,  on  the  other  hand,  while  not  morose,  was  very  quiet  and 
sedate.  With  him  life  was  a  serious  problem.  He  was  polite 
and  gentlemanly  and  made  many  warm  friends,  who  admired  him 
for  his  sterling  qualities.  Both  young  men  were  favorites  and 
each  numbered  among  his  friends  the  friends  of  the  other. 

Late  in  the  summer  of  1867  I  was  standing  on  Main  Street,  a 
few  doors  north  of  where  Kiam's  place  now  is,  in  company  with 
Charley  Gentry,  Andrew  Hutchinson  and  Prewitt.  Some  one 
asked  Prewit  where  Brown  was.  He  replied  that  he  did  not 
know.  Just  at  that  moment  Brown  turned  the  corner  of  Preston 
Avenue  and  came  toward  us.  When  he  saw  Prewit  he  hesitated 
for  just  a  moment  and  then  advanced,  walking  very  slowly. 
Prewit  moved  a  little  nearer  the  middle  of  the  sidewalk  and  stood 
facing  Brown  as  if  awaiting  his  coming.  Both  were  very  pale 
'and  we  saw  at  a  glance  that  something  was  wrong.  Brown  came 
slowly  forward  and  Prewit  stood  there  as  if  awaiting  him.  For  a 
minute  it  looked  as  if  Brown  intended  to  walk  right  over  Prewit, 
but  just  before  reaching  him  Brown  turned  slightly  and  passed 
Prewit  so  closely  that  he  nearly  grazed  his  coat.  As  he  did  so 
he  raised  his  hat  with  mock  politeness,  and  saying,  "Good  after- 
noon, gentlemen,"  passed  on.  Some  one  in  the  crowd  called 
to  him  to  come  back,  but  he  paid  no  attention  and  passed  on 
down  the  street. 

Prewit  stood  for  a  moment  and  then  rejoined  us  with  a  smile 
and  a  casual  remark  as  if  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  had  taken 
place.  Of  course  we  pressed  him  with  questions,  trying  to  find 
out  what  was  wrong  between  him  and  Brown,  but  he  expressed 
surprise  that  we  should  think  there  was  anything  wrong  and  de- 
clared there  was  no  cause  for  our  assumption  to  the  contrary. 
In  a  few  minutes  we  separated,  Prewit,  Andrew  Hutchinson  and 
I  going  toward  the  old  Capitol  Hotel,  now  the  Rice.  As  we 
walked  Andrew  remarked  that  Brown  had  come  near  running 


92 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

into  Prewit.  "It's  a  good  thing  he  did  not  do  so,"  said  Prewit. 
"Why,  what  would  you  have  done?"  asked  Andrew. 

We  were  near  the  corner  of  Main  and  Prairie  Avenue  now 
and  Prewitt  did  not  answer  at  once.  Just  as  we  reached  the 
corner  Prewit  turned  to  Andrew  and  said: 

"If  he  had  run  into  me  I  would  have  cut  his  d heart 

out,  that's  all."  He  turned  the  corner  abruptly  and  walked  down 
Prairie  Avenue. 

That  night  I  met  Brown  on  Main  Street  and  had  a  long  talk 
with  him.  He  seemed  much  depressed  and  was  low  spirited  at 
first,  but  this  gradually  wore  off  and  before  we  parted  he  seemed 
to  be  as  bright  and  happy  as  ever.  He  explained  his  low  spirits 
by  saying  that  he  had  seen  a  ghost  the  night  before  and  that  he 
was  either  haunted  or  going  crazy,  he  did  not  know  which.  He 
said  this  half  in  fun  and  half  seriously.  He  denied  emphatically 
that  there  was  any  trouble  between  Prewit  and  himself  and 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  my  thinking  there  was.  Of  course  I  said 
nothing  to  him  of  Prewit's  remark,  merely  giving  as  the  reason 
for  my  asking  the  question  his  and  Prewit's  conduct  on  the  street 
that  afternoon. 

The  next  day  I  did  not  come  down  town  until  late  in  the  after- 
noon and  the  first  thing  I  heard  was  that  Brown  and  Prewit  had 
killed  each  other  on  the  corner  of  Fannin  Street  and  Congress 
Avenue  on  the  northwest  corner  of  court  house  square. 

The  particulars  as  I  learn  them  were  as  follows:  Prewit,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Waldo  and  another  gentleman,  was  coming 
toward  Main  Street  along  Congress  Avenue,  while  Brown,  with 
a  companion,  whose  name  I  forget,  was  going  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Neither  would  give  way  and  they  collided.  Each 
jumped  back,  Prewit  drawing  his  knife,  a  big  butcher  knife,  and 
Brown  his  pistol.  To  my  mind,  Brown  did  not  want  to  kill 
Prewit,  for  he  could  have  done  so  easily,  as  he  was  an  expert 
with  a  six-shooter.  Instead  of  shooting  Prewit  down  he  tried 
to  shoot  the  knife  out  of  his  hand.  His  first  ball  went  through" 
Prewit's  right  wrist,  completely  disabling  his  right  hand.  How- 
ever, Prewit  quickly  changed  the  knife  to  his  left  hand  and  began 
advancing  on  Brown,  moving  in  a  zigzag  course,  so  as  to  dis- 
concert Brown's  aim  as  much  as  possible.  Brown  fired  at  Prew- 
it's left  hand,  but  missed,  and  instantly  fired  at  his  arm.  The 
ball  passed  through  the  arm,  but  did  not  break  the  bone.  Prewit 
kept  advancing  like  a  cat,  preparing  to  jump.  The  gleaming 
knife  and  the  cool,  cat-like  movement  of  Prewit  evidently  got 
on  Brown's  nerves  and  disconcerted  him.  He  fired  point  blank 
at  Prewit  and  missed  him.  Prewit,  with  his  knife,  was  uncom- 
fortably close  by  now,  so  Brown  stepped  back  to  gain  a  better 
position.  As  he  did  so  his  heel  caught  on  a  wooden  bridge  that 
spanned  the  gutter  and  he  fell  full  length  on  his  back.  The  next 
second,  like  a  wild  tiger,  Prewit  made  the  long  delayed  leap 
and,  landing  astride  of  Brown's  body,  he  drove  the  butcher  knife 
through  his  heart.  Prewit  was  about  to  strike  again  when 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 93 

Brown's  companion  rushed  up.  and  struck  Prewit  on  the  side  of 
the  head  with  a  six-shooter,  knocking  him  off  several  feet  to  the 
side,  where  he  lay  insensible.  In  spite  of  his  frightful  wound, 
Brown  staggered  to  his  feet  an'd  fired  again  at  Prewit  as  he  lay 
on  the  ground.  Brown  then  turned  and  walked  half  a  block 
before  he  fell  dead. 

Prewit  was  taken  to  the  old  Fannin  House  nearby,  where  he 
died  the  next  day  from  loss  of  blood,  Brown's   bullets  having 
severed  several  arteries  and  he  having  lost  a  great  quantity. 
*  *  * 

GOOD   OLD   STEAMBOAT    DAYS. 

IN  one  respect  Houston  has  deteriorated  woefully  in  the  last 
forty  or  fifty  years.     Commerce  has  ruined  Buffalo  Bayou, 
from  an  artistic  point  of  view,  though  it  has  made  it  a  thou- 
sand times  more  valuable  and  important  in  every  other  way.     In 
the  "good  old  days,"  when  the  fine  steamboats  were  in  evidence, 
it  was  a  delight  and  pleasure  to  make  a  trip  down  the  bayou. 

The  old  bayou  was  not  what  it  has  become  since.  It  was  nar- 
row, but  it  was  deep;  its  water  was  clear  and  beautiful  and  its 
banks  were  overhung  with  trees  which  were  vine-clad,  and, 
while  they  impeded  navigation,  they  added  greatly  to  the  beauty 
of  the  stream.  Then  the  steamboats  they  had  in  those  days! 
They  were  beauties — veritable  floating  palaces.  The  Mississippi 
might  have  had  larger  boats,  but  there  was  none  finer  or  more 
elegantly  finished  than  our  bayou  boats. 

The  trip  from  Houston  to  Harrisburg  was  rather  difficult,  be- 
cause of  the  twisting  and  winding  of  the  bayou  and  also  because 
of  overhanging  trees.  After  passing  Harrisburg,  the  bayou 
broadened  and  then  it  was  simply  delightful.  They  served  but 
one  meal  on  the  boats — supper,  or  as  we  would  call  it  today, 
dinner — at  about  7  o'clock.  It  was  a  meal  long  to  be  remem- 
bered, for  it  was  composed  of  every  delicacy  obtainable  and 
was  justly  famed  throughout  the  country.  Travelers  wrote 
about  it  and  everybody  enjoyed  it. 

The  very  early  boats  were  not  so  famed.  They  were  rather 
primitive  in  every  way,  but  after  1850  the  bayou  boats  began 
to  put  on  style  and  there  was  none  finer  anywhere. 

There  were  no  railroads  in  Texas  in  those  early  days  and  all 
the  commerce  with  the  outside  world  was  done  over  Buffalo 
Bayou.  The  cabins  of  the  steamboats  were  fixed  luxuriously 
for  the  passengers,  but  the  lower  deck  and  every  available  inch 
of  space  was  given  over  to  freight.  The  principal  cargoes  down 
the  bayou  consisted  of  cotton  and  hides,  while  the  return  car- 
goes were  dry  goods,  plantation  supplies  and  such  things. 

The  modern  compressed  bale  of  cotton  was  unknown  at  that 
time,  and  the  bales  of  cotton  were  huge,  unwieldy  things  that 
took  up  much  space.  It  was  surprising  to  see  how  many  of  these 
one  of  those  steamboats  could  get  on  board.  They  were  piled 


94 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

on  top  of  each  other  until  they  reached  up  to  the  hurricane  deck. 
Of  course  the  danger  of  fire  was  very  great,  but,  while  one  or 
two  boats  actually  burned,  prob.ably  none  of  the  fires  was  ever 
traced  to  cotton  becoming  ignited. 

There  were  several  serious  tragedies  on  the  bayou,  for  one 
or  two  boats  blew  up  with  disastrous  effect.  There  were  some 
narrow  escapes  from  storms  in  Galveston  Bay,  too.  History 
is  not  certain  about  the  name  of  the  boat,  but  it  was  the  Palmer 
or  Farmer,  that  blew  up  and  caught  on  fire  in  the  bay  in  about 
1853.  If  one  could  get  into  the  old  Episcopal  Cemetery  at  the 
foot  of  Dallas  Avenue,  this  could  be  ascertained,  for  in  the  lot 
of  Dr.  Evans,  in  that  graveyard,  is  a  small  monument  erected 
to  the  memory  of  a  negro  man  whose  remains  lie  buried  there 
with  those  of  the  members  of  the  doctor's  family. 

This  negro  lost  his  life  when  the  steamboat  was  wrecked, 
while,  after  having  saved  some  lives,  he  was  making  heroic 
efforts  to  save  others.  The  writer  went  out  to  the  cemetery 
the  other  day  for  the  express  purpose  of  looking  for  that  monu- 
ment, but  found  it  in  such  a  disgraceful  condition,  overrun  with 
weeds,  and,  as  one  of  the  park  employes  said,  with  snakes,  too, 
that  the  search  was  abandoned. 

After  the  war  two  or  three  magnificent  boats  were  bought  by 
Captain  Sterret  in  Cincinnati?  brought  down  the  river  and  over 
the  gulf  to  Galveston  and  put  in  the  bayou  trade.  That  gulf 
trip  was  a  ticklish  affair  for  the  least  rough  weather  would  have 
swamped  the  boats.  The  trips  were  made  immediately  after 
a  norther,  when  the  gulf  was  as  quiet  as  a  mill  pond.  One  of 
those  boats  was  especially  fine  and  was  named  the  "T.  M. 
Bagby,"  after  T.  M.  Bagby,  one  of  the  most  prominent  citizens 
of  Houston.  This  boat  had  a  calliope,  but  it  was  very  seldom 
used,  possibly  because  no  one  knew  how  to  play  on  it. 

Two  of  the  fine  boats  that  were  brought  here  about  the  break- 
ing out  of  the  war  deserve  more  than  passing  mention  because 
of  the  distinguished  service  they  rendered  the  Confederate 
forces  at  the  battle  of  Galveston.  These  were  the  Neptune  and 
Bayou  City.  They  were  fitted  out  as  gunboats,  having  breast- 
works of  cotton  bales.  Each  carried  a  big  gun  and  a  number 
of  armed  men.  They  made  the  attack  on  the  Federal  fleet  while 
the  land  forces  attacked  on  the  land  side. 

Both  boats  headed  for  the  Harriet  Lane,  the  largest  of  the  ves- 
sels. The  Neptune  was  sunk  by  a  shell  from  one  of  the  Federal 
gunboats  but  the  Bayou  City  rammed  and  disabled  the  Harriet 
Lane  and  finally  captured  her.  It  was  a  most  desperate  under- 
taking, and  though  it  was  successful,  simply  because  of  its  au- 
dacity, it  would  have  failed  a  thousand  times  had  it  been  tried 
over.  How  either  of  the  frail  boats  escaped  utter  annihilation 
is  a  mystery. 

Those  good  old  steamboat  days  have  gone,  and  gone  forever, 
for  now  the  bayou  has  been  widened  and  deepened  and  ocean- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 95 

going  ships  run  where  the  palatial  steamboats  once  floated.  Of 
course  the  present  is  greater  and  grander  than  the  past,  but  yet 
one  cannot  keep  from  sighing  for  the  old  days,  when  there  was 
real  pleasure  in  traveling  and  less  break-neck  haste  and  hurry. 

*  *  * 

HOUSTON'S  FIRST  MARKET  MAN. 

NOT  long  ago  I  was  talking  to  Colonel  Phil  Fall  and  one 
or  two  old-timers,  when  one  of  the  gentlemen  asked  me 
if  I  could  remember  when  the  first  market  house  was 
built.  As  that  famous  old  house  was  erected  several  years  be- 
fore I  was  born  I  denied  all  remembrance  of  its  beginning,  but 
told  him  that  I  remembered  the  man  who  had  the  first  market 
place  in  Houston  and  I  do,  too.  He  was  a  Frenchman  named 
Rouseau.  Originally  there  were  two  Rouseau  brothers.  They 
had  a  big  tent  which  was  located  on  Preston  Avenue  between 
Stude's  coffee  house  and  Milam  Street.  Of  course,  Stude's  place 
was  not  there  then,  but  the  Rouseau  tent  was  on  the  lot  west 
of  where  it  now  stands.  'Market  Square  was  vacant  then  and 
was  used  as  a  wagon  yard  by  those  who  brought  country  pro- 
duce to  Houston  and  by  ox  wagons  from  the  interior  of  the  state, 
which  was  at  that  time  over  on  the  Brazos,  up  about  Washing- 
ton County  and  over  toward  the  Trinity.  Texas  was  sparsely 
settled,  but  Houston  was  then  as  now  its  commercial  and  busi- 
ness center. 

The  Rouseaus  were  wide-awake  and  progressive  and  their 
tented  market  was  profitable.  They  made  too  much  money,  in 
fact,  for  their  prosperity  attracted  fatal  attention  and  one  night 
when  one  of  the  brothers  returned  to  the  tent  after  a  temporary 
absence  he  found  the  other  one  dead  with  his  throat  cut  and  all 
the  money  in  the  place  gone.  Thieves  had  murdered  him,  ran- 
sacked the  place  and  had  gone,  leaving  no  trace  behind  them, 
and  the  mystery  has  never  been  solved  to  this  day. 

The  elder  brother,  though  doubly  stricken  by  the  loss  of  his 
brother  and  all  his  money,  did  not  give  up,  but  continued  the 
business  until  the  city,  early  in  the  40's,  erected  the  old  wooden 
market  house  and  drove  him  out  of  business.  Then  he  erected 
a  one-story  frame  house  on  the  site  of  his  tent  and  opened  a  little 
grocery  store. 

I  can  remember  the  old  man  well  by  two  things.  One  was  his 
pretty  daughter,  named  Charlotte,  and  the  other  was  a  large 
parrot  that  swore  in  French.  Charlotte  had  charge  of  the  store 
and  was  always  there  as  much  so  as  the  parrot,  which  sat  upon 
its  perch  near  the  center  of  the  store.  The  old  man  was  seldom 
seen  in  the  front  room,  or  store  proper,  but  remained  nearly  all 
the  time  in  the  back  room,  where  he  could  be  heard  grumbling 
.and  growling.  All  the  boys  in  town  were  afraid  of  him,  though 
for  what  reason  I  am  unable  to  say. 

That  was  15  or  18  years  after  his  tent  experience  and  he  must 
have  been  rather  an  old  man  when  I  first  knew  him.  He  was 


96 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

considered  to  be  wealthy  then  and  was  prosperous.  He  was  not 
destined  to  have  a  peaceful  life,  however.  His  early  days  in 
Houston,  as  already  noted,  were  marked  by  a  tragedy  and 
another  blighted  his  latter  days  here.  For  no  known  reason  one 
night  Charlotte  ended  her  life  with  poison.  Her  death  was  as 
great  a  mystery  as  the  murder  of  the  brother  had  been.  There 
was  apparently  no  reason  for  her  action.  She  had  beauty,  riches, 
a  kind  father,  for  the  old  man  almost  worshiped  her,  and  every- 
thing to  make  her  happy.  The  old  man  could  not  stand  it.  He 
sold -his  store  and  business  for  what  he  could  get  for  them, 
closed  up  all  his  affairs  and  left  Houston  forever.  Some  said  he 
went  back  to  France;  others  that  he  went  to  California. 
*  *  * 

FRANK   BATES. 

I  HAD  the  pfeasure  of  meeting  my  old  friend,  Frank  Bates, 
on  Main  Street  a  few  days  ago.  Of  all  the  young  men  I 
knew  when  I  left  Houston,  Frank  has  changed  least  and 
looks  today  exactly  as  he  looked  thirty  years  ago.  It  is  marvel- 
ous what  little  change  has  taken  place  in  his  personal  appear- 
ance, though  of  course,  Frank  is  by  no  means  an  old  man,  being 
scarcely  more  than  a  well  grown  lad  when  I  last  saw  him.  There 
are  wonderful  changes  that  have  taken  place  in  him  otherwise, 
for  he  is  now  a  sedate,  dignified  country  gentleman,  married  and 
settled,  while  then  he  was  the  wildest,  hairbrained,  fun-loving 
fellow  that  ever  lived.  If  he  ever  had  a  serious  thought  no  one 
found  it  out. 

Frank  lived  just  about  twenty  years  too  late.  Had  he  been 
older  and  more  matured  at  the  time  when  real  bad  men  flourished 
he  would  have  been  one  of  them.  There  was  never  anything 
vicious  or  harmful  about  him.  He  was  always  the  soul  of  honor 
and  loyal  to  his  friends,  but  his  tastes  ran  towards  fights  and 
skirmishes,  and  having  a  Southern  gentleman's  distaste  for  a 
fist  fight  or  anything  so  low  as  that,  his  inclinations  were  towards 
sixshooters  and  knives. 

Frank  loved  to  talk  of  private  battles  and  told  marvelous 
stories  of  his  fights  with  Indians  and  frontier  desperadoes.  He 
was  and  is  still  a  great  favorite  with  everybody,  for  I  defy  any- 
body to  be  with  Frank  for  half  a  day  without  falling  in  love 
with  him. 

Frank  was  a  member  of  the  famous  "world-beating"  Light 
Guard,  and  when  we  went  to  Philadelphia  he  went  along  as  one 
of  the  substitutes.  Being  a  substitute,  he  did  not  have  to  drill, 
so  had  abundant  leisure  to  go  where  he  pleased.  The  second 
day  after  our  arrival  Dr.  Carrycross,  a  large  wholesale  druggist 
of  Philadelphia,  came  out  to  Fairmont  Park,  where  we  were 
camped,  and  asked  for  the  Texas  company.  He  introduced  him- 
self and  invited  every  member  of  the  company  to  call  on  him 
when  they  went  into  town  and  asked  them  to  make  his  place 
their  headquarters.  Some  of  the  boys  called  on  him  the  next 
morning  and  that  evening  he  came  out  to  see  us  again.  After 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 97 

that  he  came  every  afternoon.    He  adopted  the  company  and  the 
company  adopted  him. 

He  and  Frank  Bates  became  inseparable.  He  got  Frank  to 
talking — not  a  hard  thing  to  do,  by  the  way — and  was  never  so 
happy  as  when  listening  to  Frank's  stories  of  Indian  warfare  and 
life  of  the  frontier.  Had  a  dime  novel  writer  been  present  and 
taken  down  those  stories  his  fortune  would  have  been  made. 
Frank  saw  the  deep  interest  that  Dr.  Carrycross  took  in  his 
stories,  so  he  spread  himself.  I  remember  only  the  main  points 
of  one  he  told,  but  it  serves  well  to  show  what  and  how  Frank 
was  doing  in  his  efforts  to  entertain  a  genuine  "tenderfoot."  He 
was  describing  a  wild  ride  he  claimed  to  have  taken  once.  "Yes, 
sir,"  he  said,  "I  rode  from  near  my  plantation  to  Navasota,  fifty 
miles,  in  little  less  than  three  hours.  Let  me  see.  What  was 
I  in  such  a  hurry  about?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember,  I  had  shot  a  man 
that  morning,  and,  then,  feeling  sorry,  I  went  after  a  doctor 
for  him." 

Frank  stuffed  Carrycross  full  of  such  stories  and  made  him 
believe  that  his  life  had  been  one  great  tragedy  from  the  time 
he  left  his  cradle  up  to  that  moment.  Carrycross  swallowed  it 
all  and  asked  for  more.  Day  after  day  he  entertained  the  boys 
who  went  to  town  in  the  morning,  but  was  entertained  by  them 
every  afternoon  at  our  camp. 

On  the  Sunday  before  we  left  for  New  York,  we  invited  him 
out  to  dinner.  After  dinner  we  lay  out  on  the  grass,  smoking 
and  talking.  Frank  was  making  the  best  of  his  last  opportunity 
and  was  telling  some  thrilling  stories  when  Carrycross  inter- 
rupted him:  "Now  boys,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  tell  you  how  much 
I  have  enjoyed  your  visit.  There  are  5000  or  6000  troops  here, 
but  you  may  have  noticed  that  I  have  never  gone  near  any  of 
them.  I  have  enjoyed  being  with  you  Texans  too  much.  That 
enjoyment  arises  from  two  causes — first,  because  you  are  from 
Texas,  and,  next,  because  you  have  my  dear  friend,  Frank  Bates, 
with  you.  I  have  enjoyed  hearing  him  talk  more  than  I  can 
make  you  understand.  His  descriptions  of  wild  and  woolly  Texas 
have  been  perfect.  I  am  a  competent  judge,  too,  for  now  I  am 
going  to  tell  you  all  something  which  will  further  explain  the 
great  interest  I  have  had  in  you.  I  was  for  nine  years  a  Texas 
ranger  in  West  Texas  and  served  under  Captain  Baylor  along 
the  Rio  Grande  for  three  years.  I  said  nothing  about  this  be- 
cause I  was  afraid  Frank  might  stop  talking.  Now,  that  you 
are  going  away,  it  makes  no  difference,  so  I  tell  you." 

When  the  crowd  realized  that  Frank  had  been  stuffing  a  Texas 
ranger  with  blood  and  thunder  stories  for  three  weeks  under 
the  impression  that  he  was  an  ignorant  tenderfoot,  a  great  shout 
went  up  and  Frank  took  to  his  hole.  We  teased  torn  all  the  way 
to  New  York  and  home  again,  but  it  was  hard  to  tease  a  fellow 
who  enjoyed  a  joke  on  himself  as  much  as  anyone  else  did,  and 
Frank  did  that. 

Good  old  Frank.  May  his  days  be  long  and  happy  ones.  He 
is  dignified  and  sedate  now,  but  somehow  I  rather  prefer  the 


98 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

happy-go-lucky  Frank  of  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  to  the  staid 
country  gentleman  he  is  today. 

+  *  * 

FIGHTING  HOUSTON  BOYS. 

LAST  winter  I  was  out  walking  with  a  gentleman  near  San 
Antonio  when  he  suddenly  turned  to  me  and  asked: 
"What  has  become  of  all  the  tumble  bugs?" 

The  question  was  so  uncalled  for,  so  foreign  to  all  we  had 
been  talking  about,  that  for  a  moment  I  suspected  him  of  being 
the  victim  of  sudden  insanity. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  asked. 

"I  mean  just  what  I  say;  what  has  become  of  all  the  tumble 
bugs?"  said  he.  "When  you  and  I  were  boys  there  were  millions 
of  them  everywhere,  bright  shiny  fellows  with  yellow  and  gold 
on  their  wings  and  back,  and  black  and  brown  ones.  You  could 
see  them  everywhere,  but  now  you  stop  and  think  and  see  if 
you  don't  find  that  you  have  seen  only  a  stray  one,  now  and 
then,  for  years  past.  What  has  become  of  them?" 

I  did  stop  and  think  and  the  more  I  thought  the  more  I  realized 
that  what  he  said  was  true,  and  now  I  am  like  he  and  would 
like  to  have  some  scientific  bug  sharp  answer  his  question.  I 
have  heard  that  quail  and  some  other  birds  go  with  civilization 
and  accompany  the  footsteps  of  the  pioneer.  If  that  be  true, 
I  see  no  reason  why  the  tumble  bug  should  not  have  his  own 
individual  peculiarity,  which  causes  him  to  get  out  of  the  way 
completely  when  civilization  shows  up.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
proper  answer  to  my  friend's  question. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  write  anything  about  the  disappearance 
of  the  tumble  bug,  for  I  don't  know  anything  to  write,  beyond 
the  fact  that  he  has  disappeared.  The  question  I  had  in  mind 
is  one  of  equal  importance  and  is  related  also  to  a  disappearance 
— that  of  the  fighting  boy  of  long  ago,  who  loved  nothing  better 
than  a  good  scrap  and  who  felt  lonesome  and  somewhat  humili- 
ated unless  he  had  a  black  eye  or  bore  the  evidence  of  past 
combat.  In  the  early  days  "fightin',"  fishin',"  swimmin'"  and 
"huntin' "  were  the  greatest  joys  of  a  boy's  life,  and,  looking 
back  on  those  happy  days,  I  really  believe  that  "fightin' "  held 
first  place  in  the  hearts  of  all  of  them. 

There  was  no  regular  organization,  each  tub  stood  on  its  own 
bottom,  and  yet  there  were  divisions  of  territory  and  the  boys 
who  lived  in  such  divisions,  while  they  fought  freely  among 
themselves,  always  banded  together  against  an  outside,  common 
enemy.  In  the  Fourth  Ward,  west  of  Main  Street,  there  were  a 
number  of  big*  boys,  such  as  Phil  Fall,  Os  and  Matt  Conklin, 
the  two  Lilly  boys,  George  and  John  Harman,  Ed  and  Billy 
Brown  and  others  whom  I  have  forgotten.  They  were  the  rec- 
ognized bosses  of  that  part  of  town  and  any  big  boy  who,  like 
the  knights  errant  of  old,  sought  adventure  "for  the  advance- 
ment of  his  lady  love"  or  for  any  old  thing,  could  go  out  that 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 99 

way  any  day  and  any  time  of  day  and  find  enough  of  it  to  last 
him  for  a  week  or  two,  or  until  he  could  get  his  eyes  sufficiently 
open  to  see  to  get  back  for  more.  The  fights  were  all  fair  and 
square,  too;  no  doubling  up  or  having  a  big  boy  jump  on  a 
smaller  one.  A  boy  had  to  tackle  "a  fellow  of  his  size."  The 
rules  of  the  game  were  simple,  too,  and  no  deadly  insult  or  loudly 
proclaimed  challenge  was  necessary.  The  simple  fact  that  a 
big  boy  from  another  part  of  town  had  dared  to  show  himself 
at  their  favorite  swimmin'  hole  or  town  ball  games  was  taken  as 
all  sufficient  casus  belli  and  active  hostilities  were  at  once 
under  way. 

The  Fourth  Ward  was  the  best  equipped  of  all  for  warfare, 
for  a  larger  number  of  big  boys  and  good  fighters  lived  there, 
but  what  is  now  the  Third  Ward  but  which  then  was  in  two  or 
three  divisions,  was  not  far  behind.  There  were  three  gangs 
in  this  territory,  but  none  of  them  had  brilliant  leaders.  There 
were  too  many  of  them  nearly  evenly  matched  to  admit  of  any- 
thing like  leadership.  I  remember  many  battles  royal  that  took 
place  down  at  the  arsenal  swimming  hole,  which  was  a  favorite 
battle  ground,  between  the  Howard  boys,  Mag  and  Vic  Rogers, 
Bud  and  Prat  Mathews,  Henry  and  Jim  Thompson,  John  and 
Milt  McGowan,  Joe  Wills,  Hiram  and  Billy  Church  and  a  number 
of  others  whose  names  I  have  forgotten.  I  was  a  little  fellow 
and  therefore  immune  from  attack,  being  protected  by  my  size, 
but  occasionally,  quite  often  as  a  matter  of  fact,  they  would 
produce  a  boy  of  my  size  and  I  would  have  to  fight  for  the 
privilege  of  remaining  there. 

Those  who  remember  the  quiet,  good-natured  gentleman  that 
Dr.  James  Blake  grew  up  to  be  will  no  doubt  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  scrappers  of  his  day  when 
a  boy.  He  was  terribly  handicapped  by  his  size,  for  he  was  a 
great  big  boy  for  his  age  and  always  had  to  fight  up  hill,  that 
is,  go  against  boys  of  his  size  but  who  were  much  older  than 
he.  If  no  such  material  was  at  hand  he  would  take  on  two 
boys  smaller  than  himself,  and  I  remember  on  one  occasion  he 
became  over  zealous  and  took  on  three  with  the  result  that  he 
got  beaten  nearly  to  death.  As  I  remarked,  those  were  fair 
fights.  No  knives,  sticks,  bricks  or  other  weapons  were  used 
and  the  strange  part  was  that  very  little  anger  or  temper  was 
ever  shown.  Five  minutes  after  a  fight  the  boys  were  as  good 
friends  as  ever  and  never  bore  ill  will  or  resentment  toward 
each  other. 

It  was  really  a  painful  and  trying  thing  for  a  Houston  boy  to 
have  to  go  to  Galveston  or  for  a  Galveston  boy  to  have  to  come 
to  Houston,  for  in  either  case  the  visit  was  simply  a  continual 
round  of  fights.  Then  as  now  the  Galveston  boys  were  "sand- 
crabs,"  while  the  Houston  boys  were  "mudcats,"  though  the  use 
of  such  names  was  considered  a  deadly  insult  then  and  always 
resulted  in  a  fight. 

I  understand  that  it  is  not  considered  the  proper  thing  for 
school  boys  to  fight  now  and  that  there  are  any  number  of  them 


100 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

who  have  never  had  a  single  fight  in  their  lives.  It  makes  me 
feel  awful  sorry  for  them,  for  in  that  fact  I  discover  another 
great  misfortune  they  have  in  being  born  in  a  place  where  there 
are  no  old-fashioned  swimmin'  holes,  no  place  to  go  huntin'  and 
fishin'  except  away  off. 

*  +  * 

HATED  NEGROES  AND  LOVED   MULES. 

POOR  old  Tom  Delaney!     Had  the  yellow  fever  spared  him 
in  1867  he  would  have  left  a  lasting  impression  on  Hous- 
ton, for  he  had  much  about  his  makeup  that  would  make 
men   remember   him.    Tom  'was   an    ex-Yankee   soldier, 
who  came  to  Galveston  with  the  army  of  occupation  and  was 
mustered  out  of  the  service  there.    He  then  came  to  Houston 
and  rented  the  old  stable  and  lots  on  the  corner  of  Smith  and 
Prairie,  owned  by  Dr.  Evans,  and  now  occupied  by  the  big  brick 
building  of  the  Model  Laundry.    Tom  had  a  little  money  which 
he  had  saved  and  he  invested  in  one  or  two  horses  and  one  or 
two  mules  and  began  some  kind  of  contract  work. 

He  had  one  or  two  marked  peculiarities.  One  was  his  intense 
love  for  dumb  animals  and  the  other  his  intense  hatred  for 
negroes.  In  his  estimate  a  mule  was  far  ahead  of  a  negro  and 
anyone  could  get  a  fight  out  of  him  at  a  moment's  notice  by 
merely  suggesting  t  that  he  had  fought  in  the  Yankee  army  to 
free  the  negroes.  He  claimed  that  he  had  fought  for  the  old 
flag  and  that  the  negro  got  free  through  accident  and  not  through 
intention  and  that  if  the  soldiers  could  have  their  way  every 
negro  would  be  put  back  in  slavery  right  off.  This,  by  the  way, 
was  the  way  nine-tenths  of  the  ex-Federal  soldiers  talked,  so 
Tom  was  not  peculiar  to  so  great  a  degree  in  that  respect. 

Tom's  love  for  his  horses  and  mules  was  sublime.  He  was  a 
"muletarian"  and  "horsetarian"  of  the  highest  order.  Now 
everybody  knows  that,  having  such  feelings,  Tom  was  bound  to 
have  lots  of  trouble  with  his  mixture  of  negro  drivers  and  mules. 
He  was  in  hot  water  all  the  time  and  but  for  the  fact  that  he 
was  built  on  the  giant  plan  and  was  able  to  use  his  fists  with 
almost  as  much  force  as  his  mules  could  use  their  heels,  he 
would  never  have  been  able  to  manage  his  negroes.  Tom  had 
to  employ  negroes,  for  at  that  time  white  men  did  not  care  to 
work  for  ex-soldiers  as  mule  drivers.  It  was  a  case  of  pure 
necessity.  He  hired  the  negroes  but  got  satisfaction  by  knocking 
them  about  whenever  he  found  them  out  in  any  rascality.  One 
fixed  and  iron-bound  rule  was  that  the  drivers  should  not  ill  treat 
the  horses  and  mules.  Now  anybody  who  knows  a  negro  and  a 
mule  knows  how  absurd  that  rule  was.  A  mule  expedts  to  be 
mauled  and  ill-treated  by  a  negro  and  a  negro  could  no  more  get 
work  out  of  a  mule  by  treating  him  as  if  he  were  a  Sunday  school 
scholar  than  he  could  fly.  Tom  had  several  fights  before  he 
found  out  the  truth  of  this  and  the  -negroes  found  out  that  Tie 
was  in  dead  earnest  in  enforcing  his  rules. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 101 

The  climax  was  reached,  however,  not  through  any  ill  treat- 
ment or  anything  of  that  kind,  but,  strange  to  say,  through  the 
efforts  of  one  of  the  negro  drivers  to  beautify  one  of  the  horses 
he  was  driving.  This  horse  had  a  rather  long  tail,  and  probably 
it  was  because  the  horse  switched  this  long  tail  in  his  face  and 
not  for  the  purpose  of  making  the  horse  more  attractive,  as  the 
negro  claimed,  that  the  latter  determined  to  cut  it  off.  Whatever 
the  cause  that  led  to  this  act,  the  fact  remains  that  when  Tom 
came  in  his  lot  one  hot  Saturday  evening  he  found  his  horse 
with  a  much  abbreviated  tail  and  the  fly  season  just  under  good 
headway. 

Tom  looked  at  the  poor  horse  wagging  his  patch  of  tail  and 
then  exploded.  It  is  no  use  to  quote  his  language,  for  The  Chron- 
icle would  not  publish  what  he  said.  He  ended  by  informing 
the  negro  that  unless  he  had  that  tail  back  on  the  horse  by 
Monday  morning  he  was  going  to  hear  something  drop.  The  idea 
of  growing  a  new  tail  on  a  horse  in  so  short  a  time  was  so 
absurd  that  the  negro  thought  Tom  was  joking  and  would  never 
think  of  the  thing  again.  He  was  so  sure  that  this  was  true 
that,  instead  of  throwing  up  his  job  and  keeping  out  of  Tom's 
way,  as  he  would  have  done  had  he  been  wise,  he  showed  up 
bright  and  early  Monday  morning  prepared  to  take  his  team  out. 
Just  as  he  was  ready  to  drive  away  Tom  showed  up.  He  care- 
fully examined  the  horse's  tail,  just  as  if  he  expected  to  find  it 
grown  out  again  and,  discovering  that  it  was  still  in  a  nubbin' 
state,  without  a  word  he  made  a  lunge  at  the  negro's  head  with 
his  big  fist.  The  negro  was  too  quick  for  him,  however,  and 
dodged  to  the  other  side  of  the  wagon.  Unfortunately  for  the 
aegro,  when  he  dodged  he  got  between  the  wagon  and  a  high 
board  fence  and  was  thus  penned  up,  with  no  way  out  except 
through  or  over  Tom,  who  took  up  a  position  closing  the  way 
out. 

The  negro  became  desperate  and  tried  to  argue  with  Tom,  but 
that  did  no  good.  Tom  advanced  slowly  but  surely  until  he  got 
within  easy  striking  distance,  and  then  he  lammed  loose  with 
his  fist.  The  negro  lowered  his  head  and  received  the  blow  on 
the  top  of  it,  thus  rendering  the  blow  harmless.  The  negro  was 
thoroughly  desperate  by  this  time,  so  when  Tom  hit  him  he 
straightened  up  and  aimed  a  kick  at  Tom's  belly  with  all  the 
strength  he  had  in  him.  Now  Tom  had  on  what  in  these  days 
would  be  called  a  "sweater."  It  was  a  big  woolen  shirt,  loosely 
fitting,  that  came  down  well  on  his  waist  and  was  worn  outside 
his  pants.  Tom  dodged  in  his  turn.  The  negro's  foot  flew  up, 
caught  the  lower  edge  of  the  shirt  in  front  and  peeled  it  upward 
clear  over  Tom's  head,  just  like  skinning  a  piece  of  sausage. 
Tom  was  rendered  absolutely  helpless  in  a  moment  and  could 
neither  see  nor  use  his  arms,  which  were  bound  fast  by  the 
shirt.  Before  he  could  extricate  himself  the  negro  rushed  past 
him  and  attempted  to  get  over  the  high  board  fence.  There  was 
a  big  post  in  the  yard  and  the  negro  took  refuge  on  top  of  this. 
He  was  perched  up  there,  about  20  feet  from  the  grounO*  w^ 


102 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Tom  succeeded  in  getting  untangled.  He  took  a  look  at  the 
negro  and  started  across  the  street  to  get  his  gun.  The  other 
negroes  shouted  to  the  one  up  the  post  warning  him  of  Tom's 
intention.  I  don't  know  that  there  is  any  truth  in  the  story,  but 
the  other  negroes  told  it  as  true  for  a  long  time,  that  when  the 
negro  found  Tom  had  gone  after  a  gun  he  came  down  the  post 
so  quickly  that  the  friction  set  his  pants  on  fire.  He  made  a 
dive  at  the  fence,  knocked  off  two  or  three  boards,  and  when 
Tom  came  back  with  his  gun  he  found  his  victim  gone. 

*  *  * 

SAN   JACINTO   VETERANS. 

RECENTLY  I  have  been  reading  Texas  history.  The  Alamo 
and  Goliad  made  my  blood  boil  with  indignation,  but  San 
Jacinto  more  than  paid  the  debt  that  was  due  the  Mexi- 
cans. The  account  of  San  Jacinto  battle  is  charming  reading 
for  all  native  Texans,  and  I  take  particular  pleasure  in  reading 
about  it,  because  I  knew  so  many  of  the  men  who  took  part  in 
that  glorious  victory.  When  I  was  a  boy  the  San  Jacinto  vet- 
erans were  as  thick  about  Houston  as  Confederate  Veterans  are 
today  and  you  know  that  is  a  strong  statement,  for  the  latter 
appear  to  be  numberless.  The  most  conspicuous  of  the  San 
Jacinto  veterans  was  old  man  Tierwester,  who  had  a  powder 
horn  with  a  Mexican  bullet  in  it.  I  have  told  before  how  he 
would  commence  drinking  early  in  the  day  on  April  21,  and  keep 
it  up  all  day.  The  more  he  drank  the  louder  he  talked  and  the 
more  viciously  he  would  shake  the  horn  and  tell  the  history  of 
the  bullet  it  contained.  He  was  a  Frenchman  and  lived  down 
in  Frostown,  not  far  from  where  the  gas  works  are  now  located. 
There  was  old  man  Jarmond,  too,  and  a  score  or  two  of  others. 
I  speak  of  them  as  being  old,  but  they  were  not  really  aged. 
They  seemed  olcTTo  me,  but  they  could  not  have  been  more  than 
40  or  50  on  an  average. 

One  thing  I  have  never  seen  mentioned  in  print  and  which 
seems  forgotten  by  everybody,  was  the  old  "Liberty  Pole"  that 
was  erected  near  the  Houston  House  by  the  San  Jacinto  vet- 
erans and  the  people  of  Houston  to  commemorate  Texas  inde- 
pendence. A  few  days  ago  I  met  Captain  William  Christian  and 
he  asked  if  I  remembered  the  old  pole.  I  remembered  seeing 
only  a  part  of  it  that  was  preserved  by  the  veterans  -for  many 
years.  This  liberty  pole  was  a  pine  tree  that  had  been  trimmed 
and  converted  into  a  fine  flag  pole  from  which  flew  the  Lone 
Star  flag  on  festive  occasions  and  always  on  San  Jacinto  day. 
It  did  duty  as  long  as  Texas  remained  a  republic,  but  by  the  time 
it  was  admitted  as  a  state  the  old  pole  had  grown  so  decayed 
and  weak  that  it  broke  off  and  fell  to  the  ground.  The  veterans 
of  San  Jacinto,  who  had  used  the  pole  as  a  rallying  point  for 
years,  secured  a  piece  of  it,  about  20  feet  long,  and  on  April  21, 
after  an  appropriate  salute  had  been  fired  from  the  "Twin  Sis- 
ters," the  two  brass  cannon  used  by  the  Texans  at  the  battle, 
the  veterans  shouldered  the  piece  of  liberty  pole  and  headed  for 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 103 

the  nearest  barroom.  Placing  the  old  pole  on  the  counter  was 
all  that  was  necessary  to  "put  the  drinks  on  the  house"  and  the 
veterans  had  whatever  they  called  for  without  money  and  without 
price. 

Then  would  begin  a  procession  that  would  include  every  bar- 
room in  town.  The  veterans  were  welcomed  everywhere,  for  it 
would  have  been  considered  as  an  unfriendly  act  by  the  pro- 
prietor had  any  saloon  been  overlooked. 

After  about  the  fourth  or  fifth  drink  the  war  talk  would  com- 
mence and  the  battle  of  San  Jacinto  would  be  fought  over  and 
over  in  the  way  that  men  of  only  one  battle  can  do.  It  is  a  pity 
that  some  live  reporter  of  today  could  not  have  been  around,  for 
Texas  history  would  have  been  much  enriched.  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  that  if  there  is  any  truth  in  the  theory  of  reincarnation, 
or  whatever  it  is  called  where  a  fellow  lives  again  in  a  different 
form  but  with  the  same  surroundings,  that  I  will  be  certain  to 
arm  myself  with  a  notebook  and  a  sharp  pencil,  for  I  see  so  many 
elegant  bets  the  early  Houston  newspaper  men  overlooked. 

I  don't  know  whatever  became  of  the  piece  of  liberty  pole  the 
veterans  used  in  place  of  drink  checks,  but  it  would  be  a  price- 
less relic  if  it  could  be  found,  if  still  in  existence. 

Now  it  must  not  be  supposed  from  what  I  have  written,  that 
the  veterans  were  drinkers  and  roisterers.  They  were  anything 
but  that.  They  were  the  most  honored  and  honorable  citizens  of 
the  land,  and  having  given  the  world  a  glorious  republic  they 
had  a  right  to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  the  event  in  any  way 
they  saw  fit.  It  is  singular  how  time  changes  a  person's  ideas 
of  things.  When  I  was  a  boy  I  looked  on  the  veterans  as  just 
plain,  ordinary  men,  who  had  had  an  opportunity  to  do  a  great 
thing  and  had  done  it.  That  was  all.  Old  Tierwester  with  his 
horn,  in  my  eyes  was  simply  a  funny  old  Frenchman  who  cut 
up  clownish  capers,  while  some  of  the  others  I  looked  upon  with 
anything  but  veneration.  Now  when  I  look  back  on  those  men 
and  appreciate  the  grand  and  lofty  principle  that  inspired  them 
and  their  willingness  to  die  for  the  freedom  of  Texas,  I  feel  like 
"Texas  Thompson,"  one  of  Lewis'  characters  in  the  "Woolfville 
Tales,"  said  he  felt  when  he  met  an  old  gray-haired  lady.  I  feel 
like  getting  down  on  my  knees  and  asking  the  pardon  of  every 
one  of  those  heroes  for  having  walked  the  earth  at  the  same 
time  that  they  did. 

Speaking  of  the  "Twin  Sisters,"  reminds  me  of  a  good  story 
Otto  Erichson  told  me  the  other  day.  He  and  I  were  talking 
about  the  two  old  cannons,  and  of  how  often  they  were  fired 
when  Texas  was  contemplating  secession.  His  father's  gun 
shop  and  residence  was  on  market  square  and  the  firing  of  the 
cannon  disturbed  him  greatly.  He  was  disturbed  in  two  direc- 
tions. Being  an  ardent  Union  man  he  did  not  like  the  reason 
for  the  salutes  and  the  cannon  being  so  near  his  house  made  it 
disagreeable  for  him.  He  was  a  high  tempered,  irascible  man 
and  perfectly  fearless  in  expressing  his  opinion  on  any  and  every 
subject.  He  denounced  the  secessionists  and  their  noise  and 


104 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

made  a  row  in  every  way.  Otto  and  Alex  Erichson  concluded 
that  they  would  relieve  the  old  man  of  some  of  his  trouble,  so 
one  night  they  got  a  couple  of  rat-tail  files  and  spiked  both  of 
the  cannon.  The  next  day  when  it  was  discovered  what  had 
been  done,  there  was  great  indignation,  but  the  sulprits  could  not 
be  found,  for  Otto  and  Alex  took  good  care  not  to  blow  about 
what  they  had  done,  when  they  found  what  a  row  was  being 
made.  The  cannons  were  taken  to  Mr.  Erichson's  shop  and  he, 
not  knowing  that  his  own  boys  had  spiked  them,  charged  $20 
to  get  them  in  shape  again.  The  boys  sneaked  out  and  spiked 
them  again,  but  the  citizens  either  grew  suspicious  or  for  some 
other  cause,  took  the  guns  elsewhere  to  get -them  unspiked. 

"Now,"  said  Otto,  "as  bitter  as  the  old  man  was  before  the 
state  seceded,  the  minute  Texas  left  the  Union,  he  turned  around 
and  became  the  bitterest  man  in  Texas  on  the  other  side.  He 
called  me  in  the  shop  and  literally  rammed  me  in  the  army.  He 
said  every  man  able  to  shoulder  a  gun  ought  to  T>e  in  the  army 
fighting  for  the  South.  It  was  funny  what  a  change  took  place  in 
him.  He  cursed  the  Yanks  as  bad  as  he  had  cursed  the  seces- 
sionists, and  if  he  had  not  have  been  so  old,  I  am  certain  he 
would  have  enlisted  in  the  Confederate  army  himself." 


THE  FAMOUS  TWIN   SISTERS. 

THERE  is  an  old  story  about  two  fond  parents  who  were 
watching  the  passing  of  a  military  company,  in  the  ranks 
of  which  their  son  was  marching. 

"Look  at  that,"  said  the  mother,  "our  boy  is  the  only  one  in 
the  whole  company  who  is  keeping  step." 

This  story  has  recurred  to  me  several  times  lately  and  I  will 
tell  you  why.  Two  or  three  years  ago  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
talk  about  the  famous  "Twin  Sisters,"  two  cannon  used  with  such 
good  results  by  the  Texans  at  San  Jacinto.  One  report  was  that 
they  were  buried  somewhere  near  Harrisburg;  another  was  that 
they  were  thrown  in  Galveston  Bay,  between  the  island  and  Vir- 
ginia Point,  and  another  story  located  them  in  the  National  Mu- 
seum at  Washington.  All  these  stories  spoke  of  the  "Twin  Sis- 
ters" as  iron  pieces.  Some  gentlemen  made  extensive  excava- 
tions near  Harrisburg,  where  they  were  said  to  be  buried,  but 
the  search  was  fruitless.  Obviously  it  was  impossible  to  search 
Galveston  Bay,  but  the  Washington  story  could  be  investigated 
and  I  did  so,  with  the  result  that  I  am  informed  by  those  in  au- 
thority that  there  were  no  such  cannon  either  in  the  museum  or 
anywhere  else  in  Washington. 

Aside  from  the  historical  interest  in  the  subject  I  was  attracted 
to*  it  by  the  fact  that  when  I  was  a  boy  there  were  two  brass 
cannon,  six-pounders,  known  as  the  "Twin  Sisters,"  that  stood 
for  many  years  on  the  northwest  side  of  market  square.  They 
were  beautiful  guns  and  each  bore  this  inscription,  engraved  just 
in  front  of  the  vent: 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 105 

"Presented  to  the  Republic  of  Texas  by  the  Ladies  of  Cin- 
cinnati." 

These  guns  seemed  to  be  under  no  particular  care  and  the  boys 
pulled  them  about,  sighted  them  and  mowed  down  whole  imagi- 
nary armies  of  Mexicans  and  Indians  and  played  with  them  to 
their  hearts'  content  without  let  or  hindrance.  To  the  boys  of 
that  day  the  "Twin  Sisters"  were  as  familiar  objects  on  market 
square,  as  are  Dick  Dowling's  monument  and  the  fountain  to 
those  of  the  present  day.  These  guns  were  used  by  a  Confed- 
erate battery  during  the  war,  but  in  1871  or  1872  I  saw  one  of 
them  near  the  land  office  in  Austin  and  read  the  inscription  on 
it.  Being  so  familiar  with  the  subject,  I  was  a  bit  amazed  when 
I  saw  the  "Twin  Sisters"  referred  to  as  iron  pieces  and  as  having 
plates  screwed  on  their  sides  stating  that  they  were  presented 
to  the  republic  of  Texas  by  General  Chambers.  Up  to  that  time 
I  was  sure  that  I  was  the  only  man  in  the  company  who  was  keep- 
ing step  and  that  all  the  others  were  wrong.  Then  I  read  Gov- 
ernor Frank  Lubbock's  Memoirs  and  when  I  found  there  an  ac- 
count of  the  iron  guns  known  as  the  "Twin  Sisters"  being  turned 
over  to  Texas  by  Louisiana  during  or  after  the  war,  I  began  to 
wonder  if  I  had  not  best  catch  step  with  the  others. 

That  two  guns  known  as  the  "Twin  Sisters"  were  used  by  the 
Texans  at  San  Jacinto  is  a  matter  of  history,  but  whether  those 
guns  were  the  iron  pieces  presented  by  General  Chambers  is 
the  question,  for  now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  there  were  four 
guns  in  existence  instead  of  two.  Thus  instead  of  settling  the 
question  it  becomes  more  involved  for  all  four  are  not  only  lost, 
but  when,  if  ever,  they  may  chance  to  be  found,  it  will  have  to  be 
determined  whether  they  are  genuine  or  not.  That  the  "Twin 
Sisters"  that  were  so  long  on  market  square  were  brass  pieces 
I  know  beyond  doubt,  and  the  fact  can  be  proven  by  Colonel  W. 
M.  Stafford  of  Galveston,  Mr.  I.  C.  Lord,  Mr.  Owen  Cochran  and 
Mr.  Henry  Thompson  of  Houston  and  no  doubt  by  others  who 
were  raised  in  Houston,  whose  names  escape  me  just  now. 

When  our  war  broke  out  these  cannon  were  turned  over  to 
some  Confederate  company,  but  I  know  nothing  of  their  history 
during  the  war.  I  do  remember  the  last  time  they,  or  rather  one 
of  them,  was  fired  before  the  war.  It  was  in  1860,  When  Sam 
Houston  was  elected  governor.  Because  of  his  pronounced  Union 
views  many  of  his  former  friends  opposed  him  and  he  had  a  hard 
fight.  When  the  news  of  his  election  was  received,  his  friends 
got  the  "Twin  Sisters"  with  the  intention  of  firing  a  salute  in 
honor  of  his  victory.  The  guns  were  taken  to  a  grassy  hill,  cor- 
ner of  Fannin  and  Commerce  Streets.  One  gun  was  fired  and  a 
bag  of  powder  was  rammed  down  the  other,  but  when  they  started 
to  prime  the  piece  they  found  some  one  had  spiked  it.  They 
rushed  to  the  other  gun,  but  found  it  spiked  also.  That  broke 
up  the  salute,  of  course,  but  it  was  a  fitting  thing  that  the  last 
time  one  of  the  "Twin  Sisters"  spoke  in  time  of  peace  should 
have  been  in  honor  of  the  hero  of  San  Jacinto. 
In  early  days  there  were  a  great  many  survivors  of  San  Jacinto 


106 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

living  in  or  near  Houston  and  San  Jacinto  Day,  April  21,  was 
always  celebrated  in  great  style.  The  "Twin  Sisters"  were  taken 
down  to  the  corner  of  Commerce  Street  and  a  salute  was  fired, 
after  which  the  town  was  literally  turned  over  to  the  heroes  of 
San  Jacinto.  I  remember  well  one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of 
them.  He  was  Tierwester,  an  old  Frenchman.  At  the  battle  of 
San  Jacinto  he  had  a  powder  horn  slung  to  his  neck.  This  pow- 
der horn  was  a  cow's  horn  scraped  very  thin  and  had  a  wooden 
plug  at  the  large  end  and  a  small  plug  at  the  little  end  of  the 
horn.  During  the  battle  a  Mexican  bullet  struck  this  horn  and 
entered  through  one  side,  but  did  not  have  enough  force  to  go  out 
of  the  other.  Tierw.ester  never  removed  the  ball,  but  on  San 
Jacinto  Day  he  came  to  the  reunion  wearing  this  horn  round  his 
neck  and  the  drunker  he  got  the  louder  he  told  the  story  and 
rattled  the  bullet.  He  was  a  great  character  and  lived  and  died 
in  what  was  then  known  as  Frosttown,  not  far  from  the  Hutchins 
residence,  now  the  center  of  Houston  almost. 

But  these  San  Jacinto  celebrations  were  not  always  fun  alone. 
Tragedy  cropped  up  occasionally.  I  remember  one  which  oc- 
curred when  I  was  a  little  boy.  The  "Twin  Sisters"  had  been 
taken  out,  as  usual,  for  the  salute.  A  man  named  Tom  Ewing 
took  charge  of  the  big  end  of  the  gun  and  volunteered  to  hold  his 
thumb  on  the  vent  hole,  a  necessary  precaution  to  keep  the  gun 
from  exploding  after  it  became  heated.  Mr.  Warren  Stansbury 
performed  the  duty  of  loading  the  piece.  The  salute  was  about 
half  over  and  Stansbury  was  ramming  home  a  charge  when  the 
gun  became  so  hot  that  Ewing,  thoughtlessly,  took  his  thumb 
from  the  vent.  Instantly  the  piece  was  discharged  and  Stans- 
bury's  arm  was  so  badly  mutilated  by  the  rammer  that  amputa- 
tion was  necessary.  He  recovered  and  lived  several  years  after- 
ward. 

Of  course  all  has  been  done  that  can  be  done  to  locate  the 
"Twin  Sisters,"  but  there  is  one  question  that  can  be  and  should 
be  settled:  Which  Twin  Sisters  were  used  at  San  Jacinto? 
Those  presented  by  the  ladies  of  Cincinnati  or  those  by  General 
Chambers  As  a  native  Texan,  I  had  the  greatest  respect  and 
reverence  for  the  brass  pieces  of  market  square  and  I  would  like 
to  know  if  I  have  been  worshipping  false  gods  all  these  years. 
I  know  nothing  of  the  Chambers  iron  cannon,  but  if  they  should 
be  proven  to  be  the  real  San  Jacinto  cannon  I  am  willing  to 
transfer  my  homage  and  allegiance  to  them. 

*  *  * 

HOW   HE   LOST  HIS   EGGS. 

SOMEONE  asked  me  the  other  day  how  I  managed  to  think 
of  so  many  things  of  the  past  to  write  about.    The  truth 
is  that  I  have  more  things,  unwittingly,  suggested  to  me 
every  day  than  I  could  write  up  in  a  week.     I  rarely  meet  one  of 
my  old-time  friends  that  some  subject  is  not  discussed  which, 
directly  or  indirectly,  suggests  something  of  the  past.    Then,  too, 
a  line  in  the  daily  papers  will  cause  me  to  think  of  some  occur- 
rence, which  has  no  apparent  relation  or  reference  to  the  sub- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 107 

ject  of  the  paragraph.  To  illustrate  this  I  will  say  that  the  other 
day  I  read  one  editor's  paragraph,  in  which  he  said  that  if  he  had 
a  fresh  yard  egg  he  would  put  it  in  a  bank  and  draw  checks 
against  it.  That  witty  paragraph  did  not  make  me  think  of  the 
high  price  of  eggs  so  much  as  it  did  of  an  amusing  fight  I  once 
witnessed  in  which  a  bag  of  yard  eggs  played  a  prominent  part. 

I  have  written  of  that  grand  old  democratic  war  horse,  Uncle 
Dick  Wescott,  and  have  told  how  he  "held  the  fort,"  sometimes 
almost  single-handed,  against  all  comers.  He  was  a  Democrat 
first  of  all  and  then  a  "Southern  gentleman"  who  would  have 
willingly  given  up  his  life  any  time  to  prevent  even  the  sem- 
blance of  equality  between  the  whites  and  negroes.  He  did  not 
want  them  to  have  the  same  rights  at  the  ballot  box,  but  he 
could  not  prevent  them  doing  so.  Like  all  oldtime  Southerners, 
he  had  a  warm  place  in  his  heart  for  the  old-time  negroes,  and 
was  always  willing  to  help  them  along  in  the  world,  except  in 
the  direction  of  the  ballot  box.  When  the  white  Republicans  and 
negroes  marshaled  their  forces  and  beat  him  in  an  election,  he 
let  them  take  the  fruits  of  their  victory,  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  could  not  prevent  them  doing  so.  It  was  not  because  he 
was  not  willing  enough  to  knock  them  out. 

Uncle  Dick  always  declared  that  the  government  had  gone  only 
half  way  when  they  gave  the  negroes  the  right  to  vote,  and  that 
to  make  the  thing  complete  the  ballot  should  have  been  bestowed 
on  the  mules. 

I  dwell  somewhat  at  length  on  Uncle  Dick's  political  views, 
because  they  have  bearing  on  what  follows.  One  afternoon  a 
very  prominent  member  of  the  Houston  bar  got  into  a  discussion 
with  Uncle  Dick,  during  which  the  prominent  lawyer  so  far  for- 
got himself  in  the  heat  of  argument  as  to  take  the  stand  that  the 
negro  had  as  much  right  from  a  legal  point  of  view  to  vote  as 
a  white  man.  Uncle  Dick  was  forced  to  reluctantly  admit  that 
perhaps  that  was  true,  but  he  stuck  to  his  point  that  the  law  was 
a  fool,  or  as  Mr.  Bumble  puts  it,  "the  law  is  a  ass."  The  discus- 
sion attracted  quite  a  crowd,  for  it  was  hot  and  animated  and 
Uncle  Dick  punctuated  his  points  by  waving  a  big  paper  bag  of 
eggs  he  held  in  his  right  hand.  The  lawyer  had  the  best  of  the 
argument,  of  course,  and  that  did  not  add  to  Uncle  Dick's  equi- 
librium. Finally  Uncle  Dick  lost  his  temper,  and  when  the 
lawyer  drew  emphatic  attention  to  "negro  rights"  Uncle  Dick 
lost  his  head  and  his  bag  of  eggs  at  the  same  moment.  Before 
anyone  knew  what  her  was  going  to  do,  he  smashed  the  lawyer 
full  in  the  face  with  the  bag  of  eggs.  The  bag  and  eggs  broke 
and  that  dignified  lawyer  was  turned  into  the  worst  scare-crow 
anyone  ever  saw.  I  had  no  idea  until  then  that  there  was  so 
much  material  in  a  bag  of  eggs.  Of  course  the  lawyer  could  not 
see  nor  hear,  either,  and  before  he  could  find  his  bearings,  friends 
seized  Uncle  Dick  and  hurried  him  away.  The  lawyer  swore 
vengeance  and  declared  he  would  shoot  the  old  man  on  sight,  but 
before  they  met  again  "their  friends  patched  the  matter  up  and 


108 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

while  never  the  best  of  friends  after  that,  they  managed  to  en- 
dure the  presence  of  each  other  on  the  earth  at  the  same  time. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  when  I  read  that  newspaper  paragraph, 
that  egg  fight  came  distinctly  before  me,  and  I  could  see  that 
dignified  lawyer  clawing  at  his  eyes  and  ears,  with  his  fingers 
dripping  egg  all  over  everything.  Uncle  Dick  was  a  warrior  from 
away  back  yonder  and  everybody  knew  it.  He  used  to  publish 
editorials  in  the  Age  during  a  campaign  that  were  so  hot  one 
wondered  that  they  did  not  burn  the  paper.  They  were  in  pure 
United  States  language,  too,  and  things  were  called  by  their 
names,  or  at  least  by  names  that  Uncle  Dick  thought  appropriate. 
One  of  those  articles  of  his,  if  published  in  earnest  today,  would 
result  in  a  million  dollar  libel  suit  if  not  in  buckets  of  blood.  I 
have  said  that  he  was  a  warrior,  and  such  he  was.  I  have  seen 
him  in  one  or  two  engagements,  and  in  every  one  of  them  he 
forced  the  fighting.  That  was  the  strange  part  of  it  and  I  can't 
understand  yet  why  a  man  who  did  so  much  as  to  arouse  antag- 
onism and  invite  attack  should  always  have  to  make  the  attack. 
Perhaps  one  reason  was  that  everybody  knew  Uncle  Dick  was 
"fixed"  for  trouble  and  they  did  not  care  to  become  the  aggres- 
sors. They  would  venture  to  "sass"  him,  but  that  was  as  far  as 
they  cared  to  go. 

Sometimes  it  makes  me  really  hungry  for  the  old  times  when 
I  think  of  Uncle  Dick  and  Uncle  Dan  McGary.  There  can  never 
be  two  such  characters  as  they  in  this  community  again.  When 
it  came  to  politics  they  had  but  one  thought,  one  object  in  life, 
to  save  the  country  from  the  grasp  of  the  "depraved  Republican 
party."  With  them,  any  and  everything  was  absolutely  right 
that  would  result  in  downing  the  hated  enemy. 


"SEEING  THINGS." 

IT  is  said  that  one-half  of  the  world  does  not  know  how  the 
other  half  lives,  and  it  might  be  truthfully  added  that  the 
one  half  does  not  know  how  the  other  half  has  lived.     I 
was  much  struck  with  the  truth  of  this  one  night  when  I  heard 
two  first-class  stories  and  received  at  the  same  time  two  of  the 
greatest  surprises  of  my  life  through  the  confessions  of  the  gen- 
tlemen who  told  them.    Both  are  prominent  men,  men  of  position 
and  standing,  and  each  has  a  host  of  friends,  so  I  shall  have  to  be 
careful  in  telling  the  stories,  and,  for  obvious  reasons,  refrain 
from  mentioning  names. 

It  was  after  a  social  meeting  and  we  were  getting  ready  to  go 
home  when  some  one  suggested  a  round  of  drinks.  Strange  to 
say,  there  was  not  a  gentleman  present  who  indulged  except  the 
one  who  suggested  the  round.  The  temperance  character  of  the 
crowd  naturally  led  to  a  discussion  of  drinking  and  its  results, 
when  Billy,  as  I  shall  call  the  prominent  merchant,  led  off  by 
confessing  that  in  his  early  days  he  had  been  a  great  drinker, 
and  had  gone  the  fimit. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 109 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I  have  actually  had  the  jimmies,  and  you  know 
that  was  going  some.  I  got  drunk  and  I  could  not  get  sober.  I 
kept  it  up  day  after  day  and  week  after  week,  and  finally  I  gave 
up  trying  to  get  sober  and  went  in  for  the  limit.  One  afternoon 
I  went  in  the  grocery  store  of  one  of  my  friends  and  insisted 
that  he  should  go  out  and  take  a  drink  with  me.  He  refused  and 
said  he  had  better  whiskey  in  his  store  than  we  could  get  else- 
where and  asked  me  to  try  it.  Of  course  I  agreed.  I  took  a  big 
drink  and  it  made  me  so  drunk  that  the  merchant  had  me  taken 
to  a  room  on  the  second  floor  of  his  store,  where  one  of  his  clerks 
slept.  I  don't  remember  much  about  getting  in  bed,  but  I  do  re- 
member about  waking  up.  It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I 
awoke,  and  I  was  lying  there  wondering  where  I  was  when  I 
heard  a  noise  behind  me,  and  turning  over  I  saw  the  biggest 
skeleton  anybody  ever  saw  sitting  on  the  bureau  in  front  of  the 
looking  glass.  He  had  a  great  big  scythe  in  his  hand  and  sat 
there  grinning  at  me.  You  know  all  skeletons  grin,  but  his  grin 
was  a  different  sort  of  thing;  you  could  see  he  was  enjoying  the 
situation.  In  those  days  I  was  a  bit  profane,  so  I  took  a  long 
look  at  him  and  asked  him  what  in  hell  he  wanted  and  what  he 
was  doing  there. 

"  'Billy,'  said  he,  very  slowly  and  drawling,  'Billy,'  said  he,  'I 
am  here  after  you  and  I  am  going  to  cut  your  head  off.'  Saying 
that  he  made  one  big  jump,  landed  square  across  my  chest,,  cut 
my  head  off  with  the  scythe,  and  jumped  back  on  the  bureau 
again. 

"That  made  me  good  mad.  I  don't  know  how  I  did  it,  but  I 
could  see  just  as  well  without  my  head  as  I  could  with  it,  but  all 
the  same  I  wanted  my  head  back.  'Look  here,'  I  said  to  him, 
'you  bring  that  head  back  here  or  I'll  hurt  you.'  'You  can't  hurt 
me,'  he  said.  'You  make  me  laugh,'  and  with  that  he  began  to 
chuckle.  It  was  the  funniest  chuckle  you  ever  heard.  It  com- 
menced in  his  teeth  and  then  dropped  down  into  him  and  went 
rattling  along  his  ribs  and  sounded  like  a  boy  scraping  along  a 
picket  fence  with  a  stick.  I  had  my  45  with  me  and  I  lugged  it 
out.  'Are  you  going  to  bring  that  head  back?'  I  asked.  The 
skeleton  said  nothing,  but  just  sat  there  and  grinned.  I  took 
good  aim  at  his  head  and  said:  'I  am  going  to  count  three  and 
when  I  finish,  if  my  head's  not  back,  I'm  going  to  destroy  you.' 
I  commenced  counting  right  slowly,  'one,'  'two,'  'three,'  and  I  let 
him  have  it.  I  saw  the  looking-glass  fly  to  pieces  and  I  saw  that 
I  had  missed  him,  so  I  pulled  do^vn  on  him  again.  When  the 
smoke  cleared  off  the  skeleton  was  gone,  but  he  had  taken  my 
head  with  him  and  I  was  in  a  worse  fix  than  ever.  I  heard  a 
noise  back  of  me  and  there  was  the  skeleton.  He  was  trying  to 
hide  and  I  was  trying  to  get  a  line  on  him  when  the  crowd  from 
downstairs  broke  into  the  room  and  grabbed  me.  They  lugged 
me  off  to  a  hospital  and  the  doctors  finally  pulled  me  through. 
That  is  the  reason  I  don't  drink.  I  have  whiskey  and  that  skele- 


110 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

ton  too  intimately  associated  together  to  enjoy  the  whiskey  part 
of  it." 

"That  was  a  fine  experience  you  had,  major,"  said  a  retired 
ranch  man,  "and  since  you  have  told  the  story  I  will  give  a  bit 
of  my  own  experience  in  the  same  line." 

"I  had  been  in  Richmond  for  about  two  weeks  enjoying  myself 
with  the  boys.  I  had  drunk  lots  of  whiskey  but  had  not  eaten 
a  thing.  Finally  I  got  so  that  I  could  not  get  any  action  at  all 
out  of  whiskey.  It  would  not  make  me  drunk  or  do  me  any 
good  at  all  except  for  a  few  minutes,  when  it  would  die  out  and  I 
would  have  to  fill  up  again.  One  of  my  friends  was  running  a 
saloon,  and  upstairs  over  the  saloon  he  had  a  faro  layout  and 
other  fixtures,  among  them  a  billiard  table.  I  was  in  his  place 
one  morning,  feeling  awful.  I  took  four  or  five  drinks  and  he 
persuaded  me  to  go  upstairs  and  lie  down  on  the  billiard  table 
and  try  to  get  some  sleep.  It  was  a  big  room  and  was  not 
sealed,  having  all  the  rafters  bare.  I  lay  down  on  the  table 
and  was  thinking  how  much  I  would  give  to  be  sober  so  I 
could  take  a  fresh  start  and  enjoy  myself  with  the  boys,  when 
I  heard  a  scraping  sound  down  at  the  end  of  the  room  on  one 
of  the  rafters,  and  looking  up  I  saw  a  big  rattlesnake  about 
fifteen  feet  long,  trying  to  slip  up  on  me  without  my  knowing 
it.  He'd  creep  along  a  little  bit,  slip,  catch  himself,  and  then 
begin  it  all  over  again.  I  got  interested,  and  it  aroused  the 
sporting  spirit  in  me,  and  I  lay  there  betting,  first  that  he  would 
make  it  and  then  that  he  would  not.  He  would  stretch  away 
out,  get  a  good  hold,  and  then  try  to  draw  himself  forward,  would 
slip,  nearly  fall,  and  catch  himself.  I  got  so  interested  that  I 
did  not  realize  that  he  was  gaining  all  the  time,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  he  was  right  over  me.  Then  he  turned  himself 
loose  and  did  not  try  to  catch  himself.  But  I  was  too  quick  for 
him.  By  the  time  he  hit  the  table  I  was  half  way  down  stairs, 
and  the  next  moment  I  was  across  the  sidewalk,  heading  for 
the  other  side  of  the  street. 

"Just  as  I  left  the  sidewalk  a  man  riding  a  big  black  horse 
came  charging  down  on  me  with  a  long  sword  in  his  hand.  I 
realized  somehow  that  he  could  not  touch  me  so  long  as  I  was 
on  the  sidewalk  and  T  made  a  dash  for  it  and  just  got  there 
in  time.  I  also  realized  that  I  had  to  cross  that  street,  so  I 
waited  until  the  fellow's  back  was  turned  and  started  again,  but 
he  whirled  his  horse  and  came  near  getting  me.  Then  I  waited 
until  he  got  away  off  and  made  another  dash,  but  he  gaw  me  out 
of  the  back  of  his  head  and  I  just  barely  reached  the  sidewalk 
in  time.  Then  I  made  out  I  was  going  down  the  sidewalk,  and 
as  soon  as  his  back  was  turned  I  made  a  quick  dash,  but  he  was 
there  all  right,  and  again  I  just  barely  saved  myself.  That 
made  me  mad  and  I  started  into  the  barroom  to  get  a  gun  to 
do  him  up,  when  the  saloon  man  and  a  number  of  my  friends 
jumped  on  me  and  tied  me.  They  sent  for  a  doctor  and  for 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 111 

about  three  weeks  I  had  a  time  of  it.  Like  you,  I  associate 
Whiskey  with  a  snake  and  that  fellow  on  a  black  horse.  I  have 
never  taken  a  drink  since  and  I  never  intend  to  take  another." 


INTERVIEWING  AN    OLD-TIMER. 

DURING  some  years  of  active  newspaper  work,  I  have  had, 
of  course,  some  funny  experiences,  but  I  had  one  the 
other  day  that  beat  anything  with  which  I  had  ever  come 
in  contact.  I  wanted  some  special  information  and  sought  one 
of  my  old-time  friends  to  obtain  it  from  him.  Before  I  could 
ask  a  question,  he  asked  me  one  and  that  set  him  going,  with 
the  following  result: 

He  asked  me  who  was  the  editor  of  a  certain  paper  published 
in  Houston,  and  when  I  told  him,  truthfully,  that  I  had  never 
heard  of  the  paper,  he  launched  out  as  follows: 

"You  are  like  Sarah  Bernhardt.  When  some  one  asked  her 
about  Mrs.  Potter,  she  said:  'Mrs.  Pottair!  I  don't  know  there 
is  an  actress  by  such  name  as  Pottair.'  That  was  her  way  of 
ignoring  all  competitors.  I'll  tell  you  a  good  story  about  Sarah. 
You  know  what  a  great  actress  she  is,  but  to  my  mind  there 
used  to  be  better  than  she  in  the  French  companies  in  New 
Orleans.  Ah,  those  were  fine  days!  I  was  in  the  telegraph 
business  then.  There  was  no  Western  Union  then.  It  was  the 
Washington  and  National,  or  something  of  that  kind.  Old 
Thompson  was  manager  and  he  allowed  us  to  send  private  mes- 
sages as  much  ajud  as  often  as  we  pleased.  Old  Thompson  was 
a  thoroughbred.  He  built  the  lines  to  Natchez  and  then  he 
built  the  Red  River  line.  Speaking  of  Red  River,  reminds  me 
of  a  certain  class  of  fools  who  you  hear  speaking  of  the  'Rio 
Grande  River.'  Wouldn't  that  jar  you!  They  don't  know  that 
'Rio'  means  river.  It's  like  a  fellow  I  heard  talking  about  hav- 
ing 'the  la  grippe.'  There's  another  who  don't  know  that  'la' 
means  'the'  in  French.  But  one  thing  gets  on  my  nerves  more 
than  anything.  That  is  the  new  word  they  have  made  to  fix  on 
a  driver  of  an  automobile — 'chauffeur'." 

Here  I  ventured  to  suggest  that  it  was  not  a  new  word,  but 
an  old  one,  and  meant  a  stoker,  fireman,  or  something  like 
that,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  me,  but  went  on. 

"They  don't  even  know  how  to  pronounce  the  word.  Some 
say  'showfer,'  some  say  'chawfer,'  while  the  proper  way  to  say 
it  is  'shaw-fer,'  sorter  lengthening  out  the  'fer'  part.  Do  you 
catch  it? 

"I  pride  myself  on  my  French,  for  I  learned  it  first  from  old 
-Loui  du  Pies  in  New  Orleans.  There  was  a  man  for  your  money. 
As  polite  as  a  basket  of  chips,  but  always  looking  out  for  a  fight, 
and  never  so  happy  as  when  he  found  one.  I  saw  him  clean  out 
a  barroom  in  New  Orleans  one  night.  I  say  barroom,  but  they 
call  them  'coffee  houses'  over  there,  but  I  don't  know  why,  for 


112 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

they  never  sell  coffee  in  them.  Loui  always  had  half  a  dozen 
duels  on  hand  after  he  had  had  his  fun.  Those  duels  in  New 
Orleans  are  the  same  as  the  French  duels.  They  go  out  and 
poke  at  each  other  with  little  swords  that  look  •  like  knitting 
needles,  long  drawn  out.  Finally  one  will  stick  the  other  through 
the  skin  of  his  arm  and  their  honor  is  satisfied.  Then  they  em- 
brace and  go  off  somewhere  to  eat  a  good  breakfast. 

One  night  a  little  Frenchman  came  in  our  office  to  send  a 
telegram  and  got  sassy  about  it.  Old  man  Thompson  called  him 
down  and  started  to  kick  him  out  of  the  door,  but  the  chap  was 
too  quick  for  him  and  got  away.  In  half  an  hour  two  young  men, 
who  said  they  were  their  friend's  "witnesses,"  brought  Thompson 
a  challenge.  The  old  man  accepted  it  at  once  and  told  the  'wit- 
nesses' that  since  he  was  challenged  he  had  the  right  to  choose 
weapons  and  that  he  would  take  double-barrel  shotguns,  loaded 
with  buckshot  and  fight  at  ten  paces. 

"The  'witnesses'  left,  and  we  never  saw  any  of  them  after 
that.  The  old  man  used  to  say  that  if  his  terms  had  been  ac- 
cepted he  would  have  been  the  one  to  leave. 

"I  did  see  a  sure  enough  duel  over  there,  though*  It  was 
fought  between  a  man  named  Williams  and  another  named 
Sydnor.  This  Sydnor — I'll  tell  you  about  it — was  a  big  planter. 
He  owned  one  of  the  largest  plantations  in  Mississippi.  He  was 
fine  folk,  too.  He  married  a  Guafney  and  one  of  his  brothers 
was  talked  of  for  tfie  Senate  at  once.  He  raised  long  staple 
cotton,  which,  you  know,  is  the  best  in  the  world.  I  have  often 
wondered  why  they  don't  try  to  raise  more  of  it  in  Texas,  There 
are  lots  of  things  the  Texas  farmers  could  raise  if  they  would 
only  realize  that  they  can  do  so.  Texas  is  certainly  a  great 
state.  I  have  been  living  here  for  over  40  years  and  the  longer 
I  stay  here  the  prouder  I  grow  of  the  state. 

"By  the  way,  I  started  to  tell  you  a  good  .joke.  What  was  it 
about?  Do  you  know?" 

I  did  know  that  it  was  about  Sarah  Bernhardt  and  I  also  knew 
that  he  had  started  to  tell  be  about  a  real  duel  he  had  witnessed, 
but  I  had  too  much  sense  to  refresh  his  memory,  and  made  my 
escape.  I  realized  that  I  had  not  gotten  the  information  I 
wanted,  but  I  concluded  it  were  best  to  give  that  up  and  seek 
elsewhere,  and  thus  escape  having  to  listen  to  a  condensed, 
though  rather  disjointed  history  of  some  one's  life. 

The  foregoing  perhaps  reads  as  if  it  were  prepared  for  the 
occasion.  It  is  an  aboslutely  correct  report  of  what  occurred  and 
I  have  a  good  witness  who  will  testify  that  it  is  correct.  The 
worst  part  about  it  was  that  it  was  told  very  slowly  and  con- 
sumed nearly  an  hour  in  the  telling. 

*  *  * 

AN   ALL-'ROUND  NEWSPAPER   MAN. 

I   ONCE  heard  a  public  speaker  who  got  his  quotations  mixed, 
declare  in  the  most  dramatic  manner:     "A  rolling  stone 
is  the  noblest  work  of  God."    If  that  be  true  then  Wm.  R. 
Sinclair  has  about  as  much  nobility  about  him  as  one  man  can 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 113 

stand,  for  he  has  rolled  a  great  deal  during  the  30  years  I  have 
known  him.  He  has  rolled  from  Houston  to  Dallas,  from  Dallas 
to  Galveston,  from  Galveston  to  St.  Louis  and  then  back  to  Texas 
and  begun  his  endless  chain  of  rolling  all  over  again.  He  is 
here  in  Houston  now  and  says  he  is  going  to  buy  a  home  and 
settle  down  for  good.  I  think  he  believes  he  is  going  to  do  so, 
too,  but  I  do  not. 

"Sin,"  as  the  boys  love  to  call  him,  is  well  qualified  to  lead 
any  life  he  chooses  and  to  see  as  much  of  the  world  as  he  cares 
to  see,  and  that  too,  on  the  easiest  terms,  for  there  is  no  better 
newspaper  man  in  the  country  than  he.  One  great  advantage 
he  has  over  most  newspaper  men  is  the  fact  that  he  is  as  fine  a 
printer  as  newspaper  writer.  If  there  is  no  opening  in  the 
"brainery,"  he  turns  to  the  mechanical  department,  for  he  is  as 
much  at  home  in  one  as  in  the  other. 

Twenty-five  years  ago  Sinclair  was  considered  to  be  the  best 
telegraph  editor  in  Texas.  At  that  time  the  positon  of  telegraph 
editor  was  one  of  the  most  difficult  and  responsible  on  a  news- 
paper. It  is  hard  to  realize  that  today  when  "copy"  comes  in 
typewritten  on  a  clean  white  paper,  with  no  abbreviations  and 
all  that  has  to  be  done  is  to  read  it,  put  on  a  suitable  head,  and 
send  it  to  the  composing  room.  In  that  day  it  was  different. 
The  copy  was  on  flimsy  tissue  paper  and  was  in  skeleton  form. 
Every  word,  not  absolutely  necessary  to  make  sense,  was  left 
out  and  a  dispatch  of,  say  a  column,  frequently  came  in  half 
that  space  and  the  telegraph  editor  had  to  fill  in,  straighten  out 
and  make  it  read  sense.  Sometimes  the  abbreviation  was  car- 
ried to  such  an  extreme  that  it  was  difficult  to  make  any  sense 
out  of  the  dispatch ,  at  all.  Here  is  where  Sinclair  shone,  for 
he  could  take  a  condensed  story,  rewrite  it  and  turn  out  better 
copy  than  the  original  writer  had  produced. 

Sinclair  was  also  a  good  reporter  and  all-'round  man  in  the 
editorial  room,  and  as  he  was  always  on  deck  and  could  be  re- 
lied on,  he  was  very  useful.  You  notice  that  I  speak  of  him  in 
the  past  tense.  I  do  that  in  deference  to  his  announcement  that 
he  is  going  to  quit  and  settle  down,  which,  as  I  have  said,  I  do 
not  believe. 

In  1884  Sinclair  and  I  were  running  the  Houston  Morning 
Chronicle.  He  was  foreman  of  the  composing  room.  He  was 
then  and  is  now  an  intense  Democrat.  When  the  dispatch  came 
saying  that  Cleveland  was  elected  president,  it  was  about  2 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sinclair  had  come  down  after  something 
and  was  in  the  editorial  room.  I  showed  him  the  dispatch.  He 
seized  my  hat  and  b'roke  for  the  market  house,  where  the  fire  bell 
was  located.  Climbing  the  ladder  that  led  to  the  tower  where 
the  bell  was,  he  seized  the  rope  and  in  a  few  moments  had  the 
whole  town  aroused.  Captain  Jack  White,  who  was  chief  of 
police,  could  see  no  fire  and  concluded  that  a  drunken  or  crazy 
man  had  gotten  hold  of  the  bell,  and  went  up  to  investigate. 
When  he  got  up  there  he  found  Sinclair. 


114 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"What  are  you  doing  with  that  bell?  There's  no  fire  any- 
where," he  said.  "You  come  with  me."  So  saying  he  grabbed 
Sinclair  by  the  collar. 

"Hold  up,  captain,"  said  "Sin;"  "Cleveland  is  elected." 

"Is  he?"  said  the  captain.  "Give  me  that  rope,"  and  the  two 
took  hold  and  woke  the  town  up  some  more.  By  the  time  they 
reached  the  sidewalk,  after  tiring  themselves  out,  the  whole 
town  was  in  an  uproar,  for  the  news  had  spread  and  everybody 
was  rejoicing.  The  captain  invited  "Sin"  over  to  have  a 
"snifter"  and  as  they  were  taking  it  he  looked  at  "Sin"  and  said : 

"Sinclair,  if  you  have  got  the  jimmies  and  have  spread  a  false 
report,  I'm  going  to  lock  you  up  in  jail  if  it  takes  me  a  year  to 
catch  you." 

The  news  seemed  too  good  to  be  true. 

During  the  whole  thirty  years  I  have  known  Sinclair  I  have 
never  heard  of  his  doing  a  small  or  mean  thing.  I  am  sure  ex- 
Mayor  John  Browne  will  not  say  the  same  thing,  for  he  holds 
different  views  and,  perhaps,  has  reason  for  doing  so.  Some 
years  ago  Sinclair,  while  on  the  Post,  got  up  his  famous  goat 
races.  He  had  the  whole  town  goat  mad.  Mayor  Browne  met 
him  on  the  street  one  day  and  told  him  he  would  give  him  some 
goats  if  he  would  come  after  or  send  for  them.  Sinclair  thanked 
him,  and  going  to  his  office  he  put  the  following  in  the  Post: 

NOTICE. 

"Any  boy  in  Houston  who  wants  a  fine  goat  for  nothing  can 
get  one  by  calling  at  Mayor  Browne's  residence  this  morning, 
As  there  are  only  a  few  goats,  it  will  be  first  come,  first  served. 
The  first  boy  there  gets  the  pick." 

The  next  morning  Mayor  Browne  thought  every  boy  in  Hous- 
ton had  gone  crazy.  His  yard  was  full  of  boys,  the  street  was 
full  and  they  kept  coming.  When  he  could  get  away  he  went 
gunning  for  Sinclair,  but  "Sin"  hid  out  until  the  mayor's  wrath 
had  died  down  a  bit. 

If  Sinclair  would  only  settle  down  and  write  his  memoirs  and 
tell  of  his  journalistic  experiences,  it  would  make  a  most  inter- 
esting book.  He  has  seen  both  the  tragic  and  humorous  side 
of  newspaper  life  and  can  tell  his  story  well. 

To  meet  the  quiet,  affable  gentleman  that  he  is,  for  the  first 
time  one  would  never  suspect  that  so  youthful  a  man  could  be 
one  of  the  oldest  and  most  competent  newspaper  men  in  Texas, 
and  yet  Sinclair  is  all  of  that.  I  believe  he  has  filled  every 
position  on  a  newspaper,  from  printer's  devil  to  editor-in-chief, 
except  that  of  society  editor.  I  would  not  swear,  however,  that 
he  has  not  tried  his  hand  at  that,  too,  on  the  sly. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 115 

FRANK   LE   MOTT'S   POKER  STORY. 

1MET  Frank  LeMott  in  the  street  the  other  day.    He  was 
either   coming   from  the   country  or  going   there,   I   don't 
know  which.    He  had  the  most  mournful  expression  on  his 
face  when  he  greeted  me,  and  he  began  at  once  to  state  his 
grievance:     "That  article  you  wrote  about  me  being  a  reformed 
sport  has  injured  me  seriously.    It  has  about  destroyed  my  repu- 
tation as  a  citizen, .  and  has  done  more  than  that,  for  it  has 
caused  me  actual  financial  loss."    Of  course,  I  felt  sorry  and 
asked  for  particulars. 

"It's  this. way,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  in  the  habit  of  stopping 
over  at  a  little  town  in  East  Texas,  and  whenever  I  hit  the  town 
the  sheriff,  the  judge  and  a  few  of  the  leading  citizens  would 
get  busy  and  organize  a  'little  game'  for  my  entertainment.  That 
game  was  always  to  be  depended  on  to  increase  my  funds  from 
$12  to  $20,  and  I  looked  for  it  regularly.  The  other  day  I  hit 
that  town,  and  while  they  all  seemed  glad  enough  to  see  me, 
not  one  of  them  said  a  word  about  the  'little  game.'  I  did  not 
understand  it  until  the  next  day  when  some  one  told  me  about 
that  article  in  The  Chronicle.  It  seems  the  paper  beat  me  to 
the  place,  and  my  friends  were  afraid  to  sit  in  with  me  after 
reading  what  you  wrote. 

"I  have  not  seen  the  article  yet,"  said  he,  "but  it  must  have 
been  awful,  for  I  heard  of  it  all  over  Texas.  Everywhere  I  have 
been  people  have  asked  me  about  it." 

Then  his  manner  changed,  and  nudging  me  in  the  ribs  he  said: 
"Tell  them  about  Farmer  Bill,  about  t)ld  Fish  and  about  Weston, 
and  if  you  don't  catch  them  I  will  eat  my  head." 

He  was  referring  to  three  distinguished  citizens  of  Texas,  New 
Mexico  and  Arizona,  who  flourished  in  the  early  seventies  and 
whose  doings  furnished  Frank  material  for  some  of  his  best 
stories. 

One  evening  Frank  and  I  were  sitting  on  the  gallery  of  the 
Surf  Bathing  House  in  Galveston  when  I  asked  him  if  gambling 
paid.  He  thought  some  time  before  he  answered  and  then  said: 
"That's  a  hard  question,  for  it  has  several  sides  to  it  and  can 
be  answered  properly  only  after  knowing  which  side  of  the  table 
your  man  sits  on  if  it's  a  bank  game  or  how  your  man  plays  his 
hand  if  it's  short  cards.  Off  hand  I  would  say  that  gambling 
does  not  pay,  and  yet  I  see  no  reason  why  a  square  man  running 
a  square  game  can't  make  good.  He  has  all  the  advantage  of 
making  the  other  fellow  do  the  guessing  and  to  that  must  be 
added  the  legitimate  percentage  in  favor  of  the  bank,  A  sport 
like  that  who  has  a  good  game,  has  as  sure  a  thing  as  a  national 
bank,  and  if  he  sticks  to  business  and  does  not  go  against  some 
other  sport's  game,  he  is  bound  to  get  rich. 

"The  best  poker  player  I  ever  knew  was  a  fellow  named  Wes- 
ton. He  was  a  genius  and  could  put  the  value  on  a  set  of  threes, 
two  pair  or  a  bobtail  quicker  than  any  man  I  ever  came  across. 
It  was  an  education  to  watch  his  play.  He  had  real  scientific 
poker  sense  and  he  won  all  the  time.  He  wins  at  poker,  but 


116 ; TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

he  can't  keep  away  from  faro  bank  and  that  game  gets  all  his 
winnings.  Of  course,  everybody  has  an  explanation  of  how  he 
wins  all  the  time.  They  know  his  play  is  straight,  for  they 
watch  him  too  closely  for  there  to  be  any  crooked  work.  They 
charge  it  up  to  luck  and  predict  that  it  will  change  and  run 
against  him  the  same  as  it  does  with  everybody  else.  But  it 
doesn't  and  he  continues  to  win.  An  old  fellow  named  Wagner 
puts  out  a  theory  that  becomes  very  popular.  It  is  that  Weston 
is  a  mind  reader  and  that  when  he  is  ruminating  over  his  cards 
he  is  reviewing  the  minds  of  the  gents  who  are  sitting  in-  with 
him  and  finding  out  what  cards  they  hold.  If  he  has  kings  up 
and  finds  aces  in  some  gent's  hand  he  goes  to  the  discard,  while 
if  he  finds  his  hand  is  the  best  he  raises  them  out  of  their  boots. 
Wagner  cinches  his  theory  by  pointing  out  that  when  Weston 
goes  against  farobank  the  box  ain't  got  any  mind  to  read  and 
that  Weston  stands  to  lose  and  does  lose  the  same  as  anybody 
else. 

"Finally  it  gets  so  that  nobody  will  sit  in  the  game  with  Wes- 
ton. But  he  must  play  poker  and  he  gits  to  going  against  the 
public  poker  games,  where  one  man  does  all  the  dealing  and  any- 
body can  sit  in  who  has  the  price  of  a  stack  of  chips.  His  luck, 
or  mind-reading,  follows  him  there  and  he  continues  to  win.  He 
would  tote  off  a  wad  every  night.  Finally  the  fellows  who  were 
running  the  games  got  tired  of  it  and  concluded  to  put  up  a  job 
on  him.  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,  but  they  let  me  in  to  see 
the  fun.  The  plan  was  to  ring  in  a  cold  deck,  give  out  four  or 
five  stiff  hands  and  give  Weston  the  next  to  the  best  one.  When 
they  mentioned  it  to  me  I  suggested  that  Weston  might  not 
stand  for  a  flimflam  and  as  he  always  toted  a  gun  there  might 
be  trouble.  They  told  me  they  were  on  to  that  and  had  provided 
against  trouble  by  giving  Donovan,  a  big  Irishman,  who  acted  as 
bouncer,  a  sawed  off  billiard  cue  and  telling  him  to  stand  behind 
Weston's  chair  and  if  he  reached  for  a  gun  to  pacify  him  with 
the  club. 

"That  night  Weston  took  his  seat  and  placed  a  big  roll  of  bills 
by  the  side  of  the  chips  he  bought.  The  game  opened  and 
dragged  along  with  no  plays  of  any  interest  for  some  time.  Then 
I  saw  Happy  Jack  shuffle  the  cards  pretty  fast,  put  them  down 
like  he  was  going  to  cut  them  and  pick  up  a  deck  one  of  the 
house  men  had  slipped  near  him,  and  I  knew  the  play  was  on. 
Jack  dealt  out  the  hands  and  almost  before  he  got  through  a 
little  shoemaker,  who  was  playing  a  five-dollar  stack,  opened  the 
pot.  A  butcher,  who  is  next  to  the  shoemaker,  raises  and  the 
next  man,  who  is  a  booster,  tilts  her  again.  The  next  man  just 
comes  in.  The  play  then  reaches  Weston.  He  comes  in  and 
boosts  her  a  fifty-dollar  bill.  The  next  man  hesitates  a  long 
time  and  then  drops  out.  The  next  one,  who  is  a  booster,  comes 
back  at  Weston  with  a  hundred-dollar  bill,  after  looking  up  at 
Jack.  The  shoemaker  who  had  opened  the  pot  shoved  in  what 
chips  he  had  left  and  claimed  a  show  for  his  money.  The  butcher 
quits.  Then  the  first  booster  raised  her  $200  and  the  man  be- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 117 

tween  him  and  Weston  quits  reluctantly.  This  brings  the  play 
back  to  Weston.  He  ruminates  as  usual  for  some  time  and  then 
throws  his  whole  bundle  into  the  pot.  Jack  asks  what  is  in 
her  and  Weston  counts  out  four  100  and  two  500-dollar  bills.  The 
last  booster  has  only  $300,  but  he  shoves  that  in  and  claims  a 
show  for  it.  I  saw  one  of  the  house  men  slip  the  first  booster 
a  big  roll,  and  Weston  saw  it  too.  There's  a  big  fuss  about  how 
much  money  the  booster  who  wants  a  showdown  has  in  the  pot, 
and  Weston  pretends  to  take  a  heap  of  interest  in  what  is  going 
on  at  his  left,  though  I  see  he  is  watching  the  right,  too,  and  his 
letting  the  house  man  in  on  the  play  that  way  does  not  look  good 
for  the  house  to  me.  Still  I  know  the  hands  are  fixed  and  I  con- 
strue it  that  Weston  has  a  stiff  hand  he  is  willing  to  back  on 
general  principles;  that  he  can't  read  the  minds  of  the  boosters 
because  they  are  too  excited,  and  that  he  is  going  on  pure  poker 
judgment,  though  I  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  all  wrong. 

"When  the  dispute  is  settled  the  first  booster  nearly  breaks 
his  arm  getting  his  wad  in,  and  Weston  is  called  for  the  whole 
pot.  Then  cards  are  drawn.  Everybody  takes  one  card  except 
the  shoemaker,  who  takes  two,  and  Weston,  who  stands  pat.  All 
the  money  is  up,  so  its  a  show-down  all  'round.  Donovan  draws 
up  so  as  to  be  in  easy  reach  of  Weston  with  his  club,  and  every- 
body leans  over  to  look  at  the  hands.  Then  the  two  house  men 
nearly  faint  and  Jack  turns  green,  for  Weston  shows  down  four 
aces  and  rakes  in  the  pot. 

"Yes,  sir;  justice  had  miscarried.  Jack  had  made  a  fatal  mis- 
take and  had  given  Weston  the  hand  intended  for  the  booster, 
who  showed  down  four  kings. 

"The  house  is  broke.  The  two  house  men  look  at  me  and  I 
look  at  them.  I  want  to  laugh,  but  I  don't  do  it  till  I  get  out- 
side. Jack  is  scared  nearly  to  death.  Everybody  looks  foolish, 
but  the  worst  looking  man  in  the  crowd  is  Donovan,  who  is  trying 
to  hide  his  club. 

"Next  day  the  story  gets  out  and  old  Wagner's  theory  about 
mind-reading  falls  flat.  The  chaps  who  back  the  luck  argument 
win  out  easy." 

*  *  * 

FUN  AT  THE  FAIR  GROUNDS. 

I   THINK  it  was  at  the  state  fair  that  was  held  in  Houston  in 
.  1871  or  1872,  I  forget  which,  that  one  of  the  funniest  sights 
I  ever  witnessed  occurred. 

At  that  time  there  was  a  very  prominent  physician  here,  who 
had  been  a  lawyer  before  studying  medicine  and  who  was  one  of 
the  finest  speakers  I  ever  heard.  He  could  make  a  speech  at  any 
time  on  any  subject,  and  when  he  got  about  half  loaded  he  was 
very  eloquent.  He  delighted  to  hear  his  own  voice  and  never 
missed  an  opportunity  to  give  himself  a  treat  in  that  way.  I  tell 
this  because  it  has  bearing  on  what  occurred. 


118 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

That  year  Colonel  James,  who  had  charge  of  the  military 
school  at  Austin,  brought  the  cadets  down  to  the  fair.  There 
were  several  hundred  of  them  and  they  made  a  fine  appearance. 
Major  Brokenbourough,  who  was  the  military  instructor  at  the 
school,  had  command  of  the  battalion.  He  and  I  had  been  col- 
lege mates  in  Virginia  and  I  was  delighted  to  meet  him  again. 
His  father  was  Judge  Brokenbourough,  one  of  the  most  distin- 
guished lawyers  in  Virginia.  While  the  major  and  I  were  talk- 
ing, my  friend,  the  doctor,  came  up  and  I  introduced  him  to  the 
major.  The  doctor  was  loaded  just  right,  and  was  very  effusive. 
"Is  it  possible,"  he  said,  shaking  the  major's  hand,  "that  I  grasp 
the  hand  of  a  son  of  my  old  and  esteemed  friend,  Judge  Broken- 
bourough, of  Virginia?"  Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  don't  be- 
lieve the  doctor  had  ever  heard  of  the  judge  until  I  mentioned 
the  fact  that  he  was  the  major's  father,  but  he  made  the  play 
all  right  and  created  the  impression  on  the  major's  mind  that  he 
and  his  father  had  been  raised  together. 

"This  occasion,"  said  he,  "deserves  to  be  commemorated. 
Corns  and  take  a  glass  of  wine  with  me." 

He  led  us  over  to  a  stand  and  ordered  a  quart  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. The  major  protested  against  such  extravagance  and 
declared  he  would  rather  have  a  glass  of  beer,  but  tbe  doctor 
would  not  listen  to  him  and  the  champagne  was  opened.  Just 
then  a  band  nearby  began  playing  and  the  wine  and  music  com- 
bined to  make  the  doctor  feel  awfully  good  and  talkative. 

There  was  to  be  a  grand  parade  of  the  cadets  at  4  o'clock  and 
as  it  was  near  that  hour  the  major  tried  to  excuse  himself  so 
as  to  go  and  get  ready.  Then  a  happy  thought  occurred  to  the 
doctor.  He  told  the  major  he  would  like  to  make  the  boys  a 
talk.  The  major  thought  it  was  merely  a  passing  whim  and 
made  some  casual  remark  about  being  most  happy  to  hear  it  and 
things  of  that  kind.  The  doctor  insisted  and  then  the  major 
told  him  he  would  go  and  get  Colonel  James*  permission.  Now, 
had  the  major  known  the  doctor  as  well  as  I  did,  he  would  have 
gone  to  the  colonel  and  secured  his  permission,  for  the  talk 
would  have  been  a  good  one.  As  it  was,  thinking  that  the  doctor 
would  forget  all  about  it  after  taking  the  next  drink,  instead  of 
going  to  Colonel  James  he  went  direct  to  where  the  cadets  were 
and  commenced  preparing  them  for  the  parade.  The  parade 
and  drill  were  to  take  place  on  the  race  track  in  front  of  the 
grand-stand,  so,  taking  my  arm,  the  doctor  led  me  out  there  and 
took  up  his  position  where  the  colonel  generally  stands  during 
a  dress  parade.  Major  Brokenbourough  was  busily  engaged  in 
forming  his  battalion  across  the  track.  The  grand-stand  was 
crowded  with  ladies,  the  band  was  playing  and  the  doctor  was 
absolutely  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight.  He  was  feeling 
mighty  good.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  the  wind  blew  his  long 
hair  about  and  he  evidently  felt  like  a  war  horse  about  to  charge. 
The  charge  was  there  all  right,  but  it  was  to  come  from  the  other 
side.  After  a  little  while  Colonel  James  showed  up  on  a  fine, 
prancing  horse. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 119 

If  he  noticed  the  doctor  and  me  standing  there  he  said'  nothing, 
but,  drawing  his  sword,  he  took  command  of  the  battalion,  which 
the  major  had  formed.  .  For  the  benefit  of  the  ladies  he  put  the 
boys  through  the  manual  of  arms  and  then  gave  the  order:  "Fix 
bayonets."  His  next  order  was  "Charge  bayonets,"  and  then 
"Forward,  quick  time,  march."  I  saw  what  was  coming  and  de- 
serted the  doctor  at  once,  getting  away  on  one  side.  The  doctor 
thought  that  the  colonel  was  bringing  his  battalion  up  closer, 
so  the  boys  could  hear  his  speech,  so  he  stood  his  ground  with 
his  head  thrown  back  and  his  nostrils  distended.  He  was  in  his 
glory.  Some  soldiers  to  talk  to,  a  fine  brass  band  playing  and 
thousands  of  pretty  women  to  hear  him  talk.  He  held  his  hat 
in  his  hand  and  the  wind  was  scattering  his  long  hair  about  in 
the  most  charming  manner. 

In  the  meantime  that  solid  wall  of  bayonets  was  sweeping 
down  on  him.  I  was  off  on  one  side  in  a  safe  position  where  I 
could  watch  him  and  see  the  expression  on  his  face.  When  the 
battalion  readied  a  point  about  thirty  feet  away  and  continued 
to  advance,  a  troubled  and  surprised  look  came  over  his  face. 
The  next  moment  he  realized  that  there  had  been  a  blunder  com- 
mitted and  that  he  was  in  a  tight  place.  People  began  to  shout 
to  him  to  get  away  while  he  could.  At  last  he  realized  the  truth, 
but  it  was  too  fete  to  reach  the  end  of  the  line  and  escape  that 
way.  He  realized  that  and  did  not  try  it.  He  slapped  his  hat 
on  his  head  and  turning  his  back  to  the  advancing  troops  bent 
over  and  awaited  them.  There  was  a  sudden  break  in  the  line, 
the  ranks  parted  on  each  side  and  the  doctor  emerged,  tail  fore- 
most, from  the  confused  mass.  The  grand-stand  gave  vent  to  a 
mighty  shout  and  the  doctor  straightened  up  and  came  over  to 
where  I  was  rolling  all  over  the  ground,  half  dead  with  laughter. 
He  was  so  angry  he  could  scarcely  talk. 

"Where  is  that ."  said  he,  referring  to  the  son 

of  his  "old  and  highly  esteemed  friend."  "Get  up.  I  want  you 
to  take  my  card  to  him.  He  must  answer  to  me  for  this  outrage. 
He  must  have  been  drunker  than  I  thought,  for  evidently  James 
knew  nothing  of  why  I  was  out  there." 

I  had  hard  work  to  keep  him  from  attacking  the  battalion 
right  there  so  as  to  get  at  the  major,  who  was  hopping  along 
before  the  girls  and  entirely  oblivious  to  the  proximity  of  the 
great  volcano  he  had  stirred  up.  Finally  I  got  the  doctor  to  wait 
until  he  got  to  town,  where  he  could  draw  up  the  challenge  in 
regular  form,  which  I  promised  I  would  take  to  the  major. 

After  another  drink,  the  doctor's  mood  changed.  "I  find  myself 
in  a  nasty  position,"  he  said,  "I  can't  make  up  my  mind  to  kill 
the  son  of  my  old  friend  and  comrade-in-arms,  for  his  father  and 
I  served  together  in  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia.  The  boy 
deserves  killing,  of  course,  for  he  has  made  a  monkey  of  his 
father's  most  intimate  friend,  but  then  he  is  only  a  thoughtless 
boy.  I  might  execute  James,  but  that  would  be  unjust,  for  he 
knew  nothing  of  what  he  was  doing.  What  do  you  advise?" 


120 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Of  course  I  told  him  I  would  drop  the  subject  and  never  think 
of  it  again. 

That  night  the  cadets  left  for  home  and  the  major  left  with 
them  and  left  in  absolute  ignorance  of  the  terrible  fate  that 
came  so  near  overtaking  him. 


FRANK   LA  MOTT'S  STORY. 

ONE  day  I  was  sitting  out  in  front  of  the  old  Gray  Front 
Saloon  in  San  Angelo,  smoking  a  cigarette,"  said  Frank 
La  Mott,  "when  I  saw  a  little  old  dried-up  looking  chap 
ride  up  on  a  dilapidated  broncho,  and  recognized  'Old  Fish.' 
Now,  'Old  Fish'  did  not  get  his  name  from  having  been  named 
Fisher  or  anything  like  that,  but  he  got  it  in  a  queer  way. 

"One  night  a  crowd  of  cowboys  found  him  all  spraddled  out  in 
the  middle  of  a  trail  over  in  Arizona.  He  was  flat  on  his  belly 
and  was  moving  his  arms  slowly  up  and  down  and.  waving  his 
feet  about  as  if  he  were  swimming.  The  boys  hails  him  and  asks 
for  information:  'Don't  muddy  the  water,  boys.  I'm  a  fish,'  he 
said.  He  had  the  jimmies  and  thought  he  was  a  fish.  The  boys 
toted  him  to  a  doctor  and  he  got  rid  of  the  jimmies,  but  he  did 
not  get  rid  of  the  name  and  from  that  time  everybody  calls  him 
'Fish." 

"I  hated  to  see  him  coming  for  I  knew  how  trifling  and  no 
'count  he  was.  He  could  drink  more  whiskey  than  any  man  I 
ever  came  in  contact  with,  and  it  took  more  of  it  to  get  him 
drunk,  but  when  he  did  get  drunk  he  would  be  drunk  all  over. 
I  knew  he  would  prove  to  be  a  great  nuisance,  and  I  hated  to 
see  him,  as  I  say.  A  man  named  Riley  is  keeping  the  big  faro 
bank  and  owns  the  Gray  Front,  which  I  have  told  you  before 
was  the  big  thing  in  San  Angelo.  Riley  being  the  big  saloon 
man  and  big  gambler  has  acquired  big  standing  as  a  citizen  and 
is  eminently  respectable,  therefore  it  makes  me  laugh  when  Fish 
rushes  up  to  him  and  shakes  hands  with  him  and  gives  it  out 
right  and  left  that  h'e  and  Riley  was  partners  out  in  Arizona. 
Fish  was  sober,  but  Riley  and  I  knew  that  he  would  not  stay 
that  way  long,  and  that  when  Fish  got  drunk  it  would  lower 
anybody's  standing  who  recognized  him  as  an  old  friend  and 
partner. 

"Well,  Riley  shook  hands  with  him  and  pretended  to  be  mighty 
glad  to  see  him,  but  he  wasn't.  He  asks  all  hands  to  the  bar 
and  introduced  old  Fish  and  then  slipped  away.  Fish  acts 
pretty  good  for  a  few  days,  not  that  he  don't  drink  lots  of  whis- 
key, for  he  does.  But  he  is  one  of  those  accumulative  drunkards 
who  has  to  lay  a  big  foundation  for  what's  coming.  A  week 
passes  and  Fish  ain't  drunk  yet.  Riley  sees  him  drinking  all 
the  time  and  can't  understand  it.  Finally  he  concludes  Fish 
has  discovered  some  system  by  which  he  can  drink  all  he  wants 
without  getting  drunk  and  lets  it  go  at  that. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 121 

"It  comes  at  last,  just  as  Riley  knew  it  was  coming,  and  Fish 
strikes  him  for  a  stake. 

"  'Look  here,'  says  Riley,  'I've  been  watching  you  and  I  think 
I  can  trust  you  to  make  your  own  stake.  I  won't  give  you  money 
for  whiskey,  hut  I'll  stake  you  for  a  monte  game  against  these 
Mexican  pikers.' 

"Riley  does  it,  and  when  he  does  so  he  makes  Fergerson,  who 
runs  the  regular  monte  game,  mad,  for  Fergerson  can't  stand 
Mexicans  around  him. 

"Riley  gives  him  a  place  for  his  table  and  stakes  him  for  about 
$40.  Fish  is  happy  and  the  Mexicans  are  happy,  but  Fergerson 
is  mad  plumb  through.  The  first  night  Fish  blows  the  whole 
bank  roll  in  at  the  bar  before  Riley  finds  out  what  he  is  doing. 
When  Riley  comes  in  and  finds  what  Fish  is  doing  he  kicks  him 
out  in  the  street  and  chases  the  Mexicans  out,  too.  Fish  is  in 
a  bad  fix.  His  money  and  loafing  place  are  both  gone,  so  he 
takes  up  at  a  low  dive  where  Mexicans  are  treated  the  same 
as  folks.  In  about  a  week  they  get  tired  of  him  there  and  chase 
him  and  he  is  in  for  good.  Fish  finally  takes  up  with  a  tinhorn 
gambler  who  lets  him  sleep  in  his  room,  but  they  ain't  got  no 
money  for  whiskey,  so  Fish  gets  sober.  He  comes  whining  to 
Riley  and  strikes  him  for  enough  money  to  buy  a  coat.  Riley 
sees  how  ragged  he  is  and  feels  sorry  for  him  so  gives  him  the 
money.  Instead  of  getting  the  coat  he  buys  a  couple  of  gallons 
of  whiskey  and  he  and  his  tinhorn  friend  set  in  for  a  good 
drunk.  Finally  the  whiskey  gives  out  and  Fish  don't  know  what 
to  do.  He  comes  to  Riley  and  fairly  slobbers  for  help.  Riley 
won't  listen  to  him  and  tells  him  he  better  go  off  somewhere  and 
die.  Fish  don't  get  mad.  What  Riley  says  to  him  about  dying 
puts  an  idea  in  his  head.  'Look  here/  he  says  to  Riley.  'That's 
a  good  point  you  makes.  Suppose  I  just  makes  out  I  dies,  won't 
that  turn  the  trick?" 

"Fish  gets  close  to  Riley  and  says:  'Supposing  I  make  out 
I'm  dead.  Then  you  collect  funeral  expenses  from  the  boys. 
You  kin  bury  a  box,  give  me  the  funeral  expenses  and  I  kin  skip 
out  of  town.' 

"Riley  falls  for  it  at  once.  He  sees  a  chance  to  get  rid  of 
Fish  and  at  the  same  time  make  the  boys  pay  nearly  all  the 
expenses.  He  tells  Fish  to  come  up  to  his  place  and  talk  it 
over.  They  do  talk  it  over  and  then  Riley  and  Doc.  Matchet 
have  a  talk. 

"The  next  evening  Fish  comes  in  Riley's  place  and  he  don't 
look  good,  either.  He  is  feeling  bad  sure  enough,  for  he  is 
needing  whiskey  bad.  Riley  gives  him  a  couple  of  scoops  and 
some  of  the  boys  throw  other  drinks  into  him.  After  he  gets 
to  looking  so  much  better  that  nobody  notices  him  particular,  and 
just  when  everybody  forgets  he's  there,  he  throws  up  his  hands, 
jerks  up  one  leg,  falls  down  on  the  floor  and  goes  off  in  about 
twenty  fits  to  the  minute.  You've  seen  chickens  with  their  heads 
cut  off.  Well,  they  ain't  deuce  high  to  the  capers  Fish  cut  up. 
Finally  he  subsides  a  little  and  Doc.  Matchet  and  Riley  makes 


122 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

a  landing  on  him  and  lugs  him  into  a  room  where  Riley  has  a 
bed.  Riley  tells  me  to  stay  and  help  hold  Fish  and  then  sends 
everybody  else  out  of  the  room.  Soon  as  they  are  gone  Fish 
sits  up  in  bed  and  demands  a  drink.  I'm  astonished  to  see  Fish 
get  well  so  soon,  but  Riley  tells  me  what's  doing  and  asked  me 
to  help  him.  We  got  a  lot  of  chalk  and  rubbed  Fish's  face  with 
it.  We  pulls  his  clothes  off  and  lays  him  out  like  sure  enough 
dead  folks.  The  Doc.  goes  out  to  get  a  drink  and  tells  the  boys 
that  Fish  is  playing  nothing  but  white  chips  and  ain't  got  more 
than  a  half  stack  of  them  left.  In  a  little  while  he  goes  out 
again  and  announces  that  Fish  has  lost  his  stack  and  backed  off 
from  the  table  for  good. 

"It's  pretty  near  dark  now  and  we  are  having  some  trouble 
with  Fish,  who  wants  more  whiskey.  Finally  we  give  him  a  big 
drink  and  laying  him  out  again,  we  invites  the  boys  in  to  view 
the  remainders.  Everybody  comes  except  Fergerson,  who  stays 
away  and  sends  in  word  that  he's  glad  the  dead-beat,  old  bum 
is  dead.  After  the  review  is  over  Riley  goes  out  to  the  bar  and 
starts  a  subscription  to  bury  Fish.  He  heads  it  and  in  no  time 
he  has  over  a  hundred  dollars  put  down.  Fergerson  puts  down 
for  ten  dollars  and  tells  Riley  he  will  pay  next  day.  All  the  rest 
is  cash. 

"Riley  brings  the  list  in  and  shows  it  to  Fish  to  let  him  see 
how  anxious  the  boys  are  to  bury  him.  Fish  takes  the  list  and 
reads  it  carefully.  When  he  comes  to  Fergerson's  name  and 
sees  it  not  marked  paid,  he  raises  a  row.  'You  can  bet  your 
sweet  life  that  ground  hog  can't  git  no  credit  from  me;  I  want 
the  cash  and  I  want  it  right  now.  He  can't  git  no  credit  on  my 
funeral.' 

"Riley  argues  with  him  but  it  does  no  good.  Finally  Riley  got 
mad  and  told  him  what  Fergerson  said  about  him  and  how  glad 
he  was  when  he  heard  he  was  dead.  That  makes  Fish  wild  and 
he  swears  if  he  don't  get  that  cash  he  will  go  out  and  whip 
Fergerson  if  it  breaks  up  the  funeral.  Fish  demands  more  whis- 
key. Riley  gives  it  to  him  to  keep  him  quiet,  though  he  is  afraid 
Fish  will  be  too  drunk  to  get  away  when  the  time  comes. 

"After  awhile  Fish  gets  quiet  and  Riley  says  he  will  go  out 
and  get  a  box  to  bury  Fish  in.  He  leaves  me  with  Fish  and  cau- 
tions me  to  keep  the  door  locked.  As  soon  as  he  is  gone  Fish 
commences  again.  He  is  still  thinking  about  Fergerson  and 
can't  get  over  the  idea  of  his  wanting  credit  on  his  funeral,  and 
then  abusing  the  deceased  behind  his  back.  He  cusses  Ferger- 
son and  then  demands  more  whiskey.  I  argued  with  him  and 
tried  to  show  him  that  if  he  got  drunk  he  would  bust  the  funeral 
and  then  the  boys  would  take  back  their  money  and  run  him 
out  of  town  dead  broke.  That  stopped  him  for  a  time,  but  not 
for  long,  for  he  came  back  demanding  more  whiskey.  I  saw 
there  was  no  way  out  of  it  so  after  swearing  him  to  keep  quiet 
I  slipped  out  to  get  a  small  bottle.  He  cusses  Fergerson  real 
good  and  hard  as  I  go  out,  but  stretches  out  in  bed  like  he  was 
dead.  I  walked  out  looking  as  solemn  as  I  could  and  called  for 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 123 

a  drink.  There  is  a  big  crowd  there  and  everybody  wants  to 
hear  how  Fish  cashes  in.  I  am  right  in  the  middle  of  my  tale, 
and  I  admit  it  has  taken  more  time  to  tell  it  than  I  had  calcu- 
lated, when  the  barkeep,  who  is  setting  out  the  bug  juice  for 
another  round,  gives  one  look  over  my  shoulder,  jumps  over  the 
counter  and  goes  out  of  the  front  door  like  a  prairie  on  fire.  The 
crowd  looks  where  the  barkeep  was  looking  and  before  I  know 
what's  doing  I'm  alone.  I  turns  around  and  if  I  don't  know  that 
Fish  is  alive  I'm  here  to  tell  you  that  I  would  have  gone  after 
the  crowd  too.  Fish  was  standing  in  the  door  and  had  the  sheet 
drawn  all  around  him.  His  face  was  white  like  a  dead  man  and 
having  so  much  whiskey  in  him  made  him  wabbly  in  the  legs 
just  like  a  dead  man  who  has  just  stood  up  out  of  his  grave.  It 
sure  was  a  scary  sight.  Before  I  could  do  anything  Fish  turned 
off  and  made  straight  for  the  back  room,  where  Fergerson  was 
dealing  monte.  The  room  was  pretty  full  and  when  Fish  butts 
in  nobody  looks  around,  thinking  its  only  some  of  the  boys  com- 
ing in  to  buck  the  game. 

"Fish  gets  right  in  the  middle  of  the  room  before  anybody  sees 
him.  Then  a  Mexican  looks  round  and  instantly  climbs  over 
everybody  in  front  of  him  and  lands  right  on  Fergerson's  monte 
table.  Fergerson  rises  to  squash  the  Mexican  and  sees  Fish. 
There's  a  window  back  of  where  Fergerson  was  sitting  and  he 
goes  out  of  it  backward.  He  is  in  such  a  hurry  that  he  don't 
take  time  to  turn  round.  The  other  boys  and  the  Mexicans  see 
Fish  and  hell  breaks  loose.  They  all  try  to  get  out  the  window 
at  the  same  time  and  naturally  tear  the  whole  side  of  the  house 
out. 

"Riley  hears  the  racket  half  a  mile  away  and  comes  in  his 
buckboard  like  a  streak  of  lightning,  for  he  guesses  something 
has  taken  place.  When  he  gets  there  he  finds  nobody  but  me 
and  Fish.  I  am  on  the  floor  laughing,  while  Fish  is  behind  the 
bar  helping  himself  to  a  big  drink  out  of  a  bottle.  Riley  don't 
ask  for  explanations.  He  grabs  Fish,  throws  him  on  his  buck- 
board  and  hurries  away  with  him.  He  told  me  afterward  that 
he  gave  a  Mexican  he  could  trust  $20  to  take  him  to  the  next 
town  with  orders  to  keep  going  if  he  wanted  to  keep  from  being 
hung  by  the  boys. 

"Riley  explained  to  the  boys  that  it  must  have  been  a  case 
of  'revived  mortality,'  and  that  Fish  must  have  wandered  off  and 
been  eaten  up  by  wolves.  Of  course,  he  gave  Fish  some  money 
to  live  on  and  he  gave  the  money  back  to  the  boys  that  they 
had  put  up  to  bury  him  with,  so  instead  of  getting  rid  of  Fish 
cheaply,  as  he  calculated,  it  cost  him  a  good  deal.  Fish  wandered 
around  and  died  in  San  Antonio  a  few  years  ago.  The  funny 
thing  was  that  when  he  died  sure  enough  and  the  boys  were 
chipping  in  to  bury  him,  Fergerson  examined  him  carefully  be- 
fore he  would  subscribe  a  cent.  When  he  found  Fish  was  really 
dead  he  doubled  his  subscription,  he  was  so  glad." 


124 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

A  FAMOUS  DEER  HUNT. 

FORMERLY,  in  the  good  old  days  of  the  seventies,  there  was 
a  much  more  intimate  association  between  the  drummers 
and  the  citizens  of  the  small  cities  and  towns  than  exists 
now.  At  that  time  every  drummer  who  traveled  in  this  terri- 
tory was  as  well  known  to  everybody  as  the  residents  of  the 
towns,  and  met  with  both  a  personal  and  professional  welcome 
wherever  he  went.  I  suspect  that  there  is  something  of  the  kind 
prevalent  today,  but  it  is  not  so  widespread  and  general  as  it 
was  then.  The  drummers  have  become  more  keenly  alert  to  the 
business  side  of  their  calling  and  attach  less  importance  to  its 
social  side,  while  the  small  towns  have  become  more  dignified 
and  are  striving  to  put  on  city  airs. 

The  drummer  who  could  tell  the  best  and  latest  stories  or 
work  off  a  good  practical  joke  was  very  popular  everywhere, 
while  the  citizen  who  worked  off  anything  good  on  a  drummer 
became  famous  at  once  and  was  the  talk  of  the  whole  country. 

There  was  one  well  known  drummer  who  was  famous  for  his 
practical  jokes  and  equally  famous  for  his  ability  to  dodge 
every  trap  that  was  set  for  him.  From  Houston  to  San  An- 
tonio there  was  not  a  practical  joker  who  did  not  lie  awake  at 
night  trying  to  devise  some  scheme  to  catch  that  fellow.  He 
was  finally  landed,  or  rather  he  landed  himself  by  taking  serious- 
ly a  joking  remark  made  by  Colonel  McCarthy  of  Eagle  Lake. 
The  colonel  was  a  great  sportsman  and  spent  his  time  hunting 
and  fishing.  It  was  hard  to  say  whether  he  was  the  king  fisher 
or  the  king  hunter,  he  was  so  good  at  both.  He  rarely  went 
hunting  that  he  did  not  come  home  with  a  fine  deer  or  other 
big  game,  while  his  friends  used  to  say  that  he  could  actually 
catch  fish  on  dry  land  where  there  were  no  fish. 

His  constant  and  never-failing  success  as  a  hunter  excited  sus- 
picion that  he  had  some  secret  charm  or  something  of  that  sort 
which  gave  him  an  advantage  over  the  ordinary  hunter.  One 
day  the  colonel  drove  into  town  in  his  hunting  wagon  having 
two  large  bucks  prominently  displayed.  Just  as  he  passed  the 
depot  the  train  arrived  and  our  drummer  got  off.  He  was  de- 
lighted to  see  such  fine  game  and  asked  a  thousand  questions 
about  how  and  where  the  colonel  had  killed  them.  The  colonel 
made  no  secret  of  where  he  had  killed  them,  but  he  was  less 
communicative  about  how  he  had  done  so.  The  drummer  in- 
sisted on  knowing,  so,  finally,  the  colonel,  never  dreaming  that 
he  would  be  taken  so  seriously,  agreed  to  tell  him,  provided  he 
would  never  reveal  it  to  any  one. 

"If  it  got  out,"  said  the  colonel,  "there  would  be  no  deer  left, 
for  it  is  so  simple  that  even  the  boys  can  work  it,  and  the  deer 
would  be  exterminated."  The  drummer  swore  by  everything  holy, 
and  unholy,  too,  that  he  would  never  tell,  so  the  colonel  gave  him 
the  great  secret. 

"You  must  know,"  said  he,  "that  deer  have  more  curiosity 
than  any  of  the  wild  animals.  They  will  run  away  from  anything 
that  scares  them,  but  if  there  is  anything  mysterious  about  it 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTQNIANS 125 

they  will  come  back  to  investigate.  Now,  I  get  my  deer  by  tak- 
ing advantage  of  that  peculiarity  they  have.  I  drive  a  very 
gentle  horse,  as  you  know — one  that  will  stand  and  keep  quiet 
no  matter  where  I  leave  him.  I  go  out  on  the  prairie  and  when 
I  see  deer  I  drive  up  as  close  as  I  can,  then  sit  perfectly  still 
until  they  go  to  feeding  again  if  they  have  noticed  me,  and 
then  I  slip  out,  get  behind  the  wagon  and  pull  off  every  stitch 
of  clothes  I  have  on.  Then  I  get  down  on  my  all-fours  and  back 
up  to  the  deer.  Never  go  head  first,  for  a  deer  will  recognize 
you  at  once  and  light  out.  Be  careful  not  to  show  your  head 
at  all.  You  must  take  plenty  of  time,  move  slowly,  and  you  will 
be  surprised  to  find  how  close  you  can  back  up  on  a  herd  of 
deer." 

Now  all  that  sounded  right  to  the  drummer.  He  had  often 
heard  of  the  curiosity  of  deer  and  the  colonel's  plan  was  very 
much  in  line  with  other  plans  of  which  he  had  heard.  He  said 
nothing  to  the  colonel  about  it  but  he  made  up  his  mind  to  try 
his  hand  at  the  new  scheme  the  very  next  day.  He  hired  a  two- 
horse  rig  from  the  stable,  got  his  gun  and  slipped  off  all  alone 
before  daylight  the  next  morning.  About  six  miles  out  he  dis- 
covered a  bunch  of  deer.  He  followed  directions  to  the  letter, 
and  though  the  deer  gave  no  indications  of  having  seen  him,  he 
waited  some  time  before  getting  out  of  the  wagon  to  strip  him- 
self. Finally  he  got  out,  went  behind  the  wagon  and  was  soon 
in  the  condition  that  he  was  when  he  entered  the  world. 

The  next  thing  he  did,  after  carefully  placing  his  clothes  in 
the  wagon,  was  to  get  down  and  begin  backing  on  the  deer 
who  were  almost  a  mile  away.  He  had  a  tough  time  of  it  with 
hard  clods  and  tough  pieces  of  grass,  but  he  was  so  excited 
and  elated  at  the  idea  of  killing  a  deer  that  he  did  not  mind 
the  hardships.  He  crawled  and  crawled,  or  rather  he  backed 
and  backed  for  a  long  time,  keeping  the  general  direction  of* 
the  deer  by  guess  work.  Finally  he  ventured  to  take  a  peep. 
The  deer  were  gone.  He  took  a  good  look  and  could  see  them 
nowhere.  Then  he  looked  back  to  the  place  he  had  left  the 
wagon,  but  could  see  no  wagon  either.  Then  it  dawned  on  him 
that  the  deer  had  seen  him  and  had  left  for  parts  unknown  and 
that  the  horses  not  seeing  him  had  left  for  home  and  had  taken 
every  stitch  of  his  clothes  with  them.  There  he  was.  six  miles 
from  home,  as  naked  as  a  picked  bird  and  no  way  to  get  home 
without  creating  a  riot,  except  by  waiting  until  it  got  dark. 

The  horses  trotted  quietly  back  to  Eagle  Lake  and  went  to 
their  stable.  When  the  drummer's  clothes  were  found  in  the 
wagon  the  people,  naturally,  supposed  that  he  had  gone  in  bath- 
ing and  been  drowned.  Searching  parties  organized  and  soon 
the  whole  town  turned  out  searching  for  the  dead  man.  They 
searched  the  prairie,  dragged  the  ponds  and  searched  the  river. 
The  drummer,  who  knew  nothing  about  what  they  were  after, 
saw  them  and  took  good  care  that  they  should  not  see  him, 
for  every  time  they  started  in  his  direction  he  hid  himself. 
That  continued  all  day  and  towards  night  the  search  was  aban- 


126 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

doned  and  the  people  returned  home.  They  mourned  for  the 
drummer  as  for  one  dead.  About  midnight  they  heard  shrieks 
coming  from  the  back  of  the  hotel  and  on  rushing  there  found 
a  half  crazy  negro  stable  boy  who  swore  that  he  had  seen  a 
ghost.  Investigation  resulted  in  finding  a  very  naked  and  half 
dead  drummer  hiding  in  the  horse  lot.  He  had  attempted  to 
get  into  the  back  door  of  the  hotel  but  unfortunately  ran  across 
the  stable  boy.  In  a  few  minutes  the  story  was  all  over  town 
and  the  drummer  left  town  on  the  first  freight  train  that  passed 
without  waiting  to  kill  Colonel  McCarthy  as  he  had  sworn  to 
do  more  than  a  hundred  times  that  day. 


EARLY    HOUSTON    DOCTORS. 

AS  old  "Uncle  Remus"  used  to  say  to  the  "Little  Boy" 
when  he  began  one  of  his  stories,  "This  ain't  no  tale." 
It  is  merely  writing  down  some  memories  that  came  to 
me  the  other  day  when  Judge  J.  K.  P.  Gillaspie  allowed  me  to 
look  over  an  old  court  record  that  belonged  to  Judge  Andrews, 
one  of  Houston's  early  justices  of  the  peace.  The  record  is  for 
the  year  1859,  and  aside  from  the  memories  evoked  by  reading 
the  names  of  those  who  had  business  in  the  court,  it  has  no 
great  value.  There  is  the  usual  number  of  disorderly  conducts, 
breaches  of  the  peace  and  suits  for  small  debts.  One  feature 
that  stands  out  prominently  is  the  number  of  suits  filed  against 
delinquent  patients  by  the  doctors  of  that  day. 

Now  in  reading  over  those  old  names  I  find  something  en- 
tirely foreign  to  the  court  and  its  record  connected  with  nearly 
every  one  of  them.  The  personality  of  the  actors  appears  vivid- 
ly before  me,  and  when  I  read  that  Dr.  W.  H.  Howard  is  suing 
Mr.  Blank  for  $25  for  medical  attention  I  do  not  think  of  the 
suit  at  all,  but  of  Dr.  Howard  and  of  his  ways  and  doings.  The 
doctor  was  one  of  the  leading  physicians  of  Houston,  for  years. 
He  was  a  man  of  profound  learning  and  one  of  the  best  equipped 
physicians  of  his  day.  His  great  and  leading  characteristics 
were  absolute  loyalty  to  his  friends  and  his  detestation  of 
shams  and  frauds.  He  had  the  courage  of  his  convictions  and 
was  always  willing  to  back  up  his  opinions.  He  was  a  large 
man,  had  injured  his  knee,  which  resulted  in  making  it  stiff,  and 
always  carried  a  heavy  walking  stick.  His  size  and  that  stick 
generally  combined  to  bring  him  out  winner  in  every  combat 
he  entered.  It  may  be  said  here  that  only  strangers  ever 
tackled  the  doctor,  for  his  combative  nature  was  too  well  under- 
stood by  those  who  knew  him  to  allow  them  to  make  the  mis- 
take of  "riling  him."  Personally,  I  never  saw  the  doctor  in 
but  one  engagement,  but  that  was  a  good  one  and  might  have 
been  a  record  one  but  for  our  interference.  Of  course,  it  was 
with  another  doctor  and  occurred  during  a  consultation  of  phy- 
sicians over  a  case  of  supposed  yellow  fever.  That  was  an  occa- 
sion that  afforded  lots  of  amusement  outside  the  fight.  Yellow 
fever  was  dreaded  by  everybody  and  by  none  more  than  by  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 127 

merchants,  because  it  put  a  stop  to  all  business,  of  course.  The 
old  citizens,  "yellow  fever  nurses,"  they  styled  themselves,  took 
about  as  much  dish  in  an  investigation  of  the  kind  that  we 
were  making  as  the  doctors  themselves.  Dr.  Howard  was  con- 
tending that  the  case  was  a  genuine  one,  but  one  of  the  doc- 
tors, who  had  a  vast  amount  of  book  knowledge  about  yellow 
fever  and  no  practical  knowledge  at  all,  was  contending  that 
there  was  a  doubt.  That  led  to  the  fight,  finally,  but  before 
it  started  a  funny  thing  occurred. 

One  of  the  old  and  eminently  respected  citizens  butted  right 
in  the  sick  man's  room  and  reappeared  in  a  few  moments 
with  his  head  thrown  back,  "sniffing"  briskly.  "That's  no  yel- 
low fever,"  he  declared,  positively.  "The  hell  you  say,"  said 
Dr.  Howard.  "How  can  you  tell  so  easily?" 

"Why,  by  the  smell,  of  course.  Come  in  here  and  take  a  sniff 
and  you  can  tell  it  yourself." 

"I'm  no  hound  dog  to  go  round  sniffing  for  yellow  fever,"  the 
doctor  retorted,  hotly. 

They  had  some  words,  and  the  doctor  ended  by  telling  him 
he  not  only  knew  nothing  about  the  case,  but  that  he  doubted 
if  he  had  sense  enough  to  give  a  sick  man  a  glass  of  water. 

"Why,  doctor,  you  are  certainly  not  in  earnest  in  making  such 
a  statement  as  that,"  said  the  gentleman.  The  doctor  told  him 
that  he  certainly  was  and  asked  him  how  he  would  do  it. 

"I  would  get  a  clean  goblet,  go  to  the  cistern,  pump  the  water 
a  long  time  until  it  was  cool,  then  I  would  place  my  left  hand 
under  the  man's  pillow,  raise  his  head  gently  and  give  him  the 
water." 

Here  the  doctor  broke  in:  "I  knew  you  would  do  some  fool 
thing  like  that  when  I  asked  you.  Your  goblet,  with  its  long 
stem  and  broad  base,  would  spill  all  the  water  out  of  the  glass 
before  a  drop  of  it  reached  the  patient's  mouth." 

Then  Dr.  Howard  turned  his  back  on  the  citizen  and  re- 
newed the  discussion  that  ended  in  the  fight.  I  may  say  here 
that  the  patient  was  on  Dr.  Howard's  side,  for  soon  he  began 
to  throw  up  black  vomit  and  after  his  death  the  autopsy  re- 
vealed a  genuine  case  of  yellow  fever. 

The  doctor  was  loyalty  itself  and  would  wade  through  fire 
in  the  interest  of  a  friend.  He,  Dr.  W.  D.  Robinson,  Dr.  L.  A. 
Bryan,  Dr.  George  McDonnel  and  I,  am  proud  to  add,  myself 
were  very  intimate  friends.  We  all  had  offices,  of  course,  but 
Conlief's  drug  store  was  headquarters  and  a  general  loafing 
place.  Conlief  had  a  number  of  slates  with  our  names  painted 
on  them  hung  on  the  wall  near  the  front  door.  Any  one  wanting 
one  of  us  would  leave  his  order  on  the  slates.  One  hot  summer 
day  Dr.  Bryan  and  I  were  sitting  near  the  door  when  Dr.  How- 
ard drove  up  in  his  buggy.  He  called  to  Dr.  Bryan  and  asked 
him  to  look  and  see  if  there  was  anything  on  his  slate.  Dr. 
Bryan  did  look  and  then  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Dr.  How- 
ard commenced  getting  out  of  the  buggy  to  come  in  and  read  it, 
when  it  occurred  to  him  that  Dr.  Bryan  could  do  it  for  him.  He 


128 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

was  halfway  out,  but  halted  and  asked  Dr.  Bryan  to  read  it.  "I 
can't  dp  that,"  answered  the  doctor.  "Why  not?"  asked  Dr. 
Howard.  "Because  it  is  nothing  but  a  fly,"  said  Dr.  Bryan.  Dr. 
Howard  climbed  back  in  his  buggy  and  drove  away  in  deep 
silence. 

Here,  on  another  page  of  this  old  book,  I  find  where  Dr.  W. 
D.  Robinson  was  suing  some  fellow.  The  chap  must  have  been 
a  hard  case  to  drive  Dr.  Robinson  to  do  anything  of  that  kind, 
for  a  better  hearted,  more  generous  and  charitable  man  never 
lived  than  he.  He  was  the  "family  physician"  of  Houston  for 
many,  many  years,  and  was  the  friend  and  confidant  of  more 
people  than  any  priest  who  ever  lived  here.  He  was  a  very 
handsome  man,  warm  hearted  and  generous,  and  was  beloved 
by  everybody.  His  practice  was  very  large  and  he  did  more 
charity  practice  than  any  two  or  three  doctors  in  the  city.  He 
told  me  a  funny  story  once  that  will  bear  repeating.  He  said 
that  when  he  first  came  to  Houston  he  had  had  but  little  ex- 
perience as  a  doctor  and  was  very  modest  and  retiring.  On  one 
occasion  he  attended  a  Mexican  circus  that  was  performing  here. 
One  of  the  actors  fell  from  a  high  bar  and  sustained  serious 
injuries.  A  call  was  made  for  a  doctor.  Robinson  kept  his 
seat,  hoping  that  some  other  doctor  was  present  and  would  take 
the  case.  None  did  so,  and  he  finally  got  up  and  went  forward. 
He  said  the  man  was  stunned,  so  he  got  out  his  pocket  case 
and  prepared  to  bleed  him  right  there.  Just  as  he  was  about 
ready  he  heard  a  voice  asking  him  what  he  was  going  to  do.  He 
looked  around  and  saw  Dr.  Ashbel  Smith,  whom  someone  had 
sent  for. 

"I  am  going  to  bleed  him,"  said  Dr.  Robinson. 

"Did  anyone  hear  you  say  you  were  going  to  do  that?"  Dr. 
Smith  asked. 

"Well,  it  is  the  wrong  thing  to  do,"  whispered  Dr.  Smith;  "but 
if  anyone  heard  you,  go  ahead  and  bleed  him,  if  it  kills  him." 

Dr.  Robinson  bled  him  and  he  did  not  die  after  all. 

Now,  as  a  fine  accompaniment  to  the  suits  of  these  two  doc- 
tors, I  find  one  filed  by  Mr.  Pannel,  the  great  undertaker,  of 
whom  I  have  spoken  before.  The  suit  is  evidently  for  money 
due  him  for  putting  away  some  of  the  doctors'  work,  as  he  used 
to  say.  Old  man  Pannel  was  a  great  character.  On  one  occa- 
sion the  doctors  got  up  a  big  hunt  over  on  the  San  Jacinto. 
They  asked  Pannel  to  go,  but  he  would  not  consent  until  he 
secured  the  promise  of  every  doctor  in  the  city  to  go.  Every 
one  promised,  but  at  the  last  moment  Pannel  showed  up  and 
announced  that  he  could  not  go,  because  Dr.  Robinson  had  a 
case  and  he  knew  his  services  would  be  needed  before  he  could 
get  back.  An  investigation  revealed  the  fact  that  Dr.  Robinson 
did  have  a  case,  so  he  and  Pannel  were  left  behind. 

Now,  I  don't  know  that  one  word  of  all  this  will  be  interesting 
to  the  readers  of  The  Chronicle.  All  of  it  is  interesting  to  me, 
though,  and  I  think  some  of  it  will  interest  some  of  the  older 
people  who  knew  all  the  people  I  have  mentioned.  When  Judge 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 129 

Andrews  was  making  those  formal  entries  in  this  little  leather- 
bound  book  he  little  dreamed  to  what  use  they  would  be  put 
over  half  a  century  after  they  were  written.  They  have  served 
the  purpose  today  of  carrying  me  back  to  a  day  when  some  of 
the  greatest  men  of  Houston  tread  the  boards,  and  the  experi- 
ence has  been  very  pleasant. 


HANTS  AND  HOODOOS. 

I  WAS  amused  when  I  read  in  the  papers  the  other  day 
about  the  negroes  being  so  frightened  by  the  .report  that 
the  "Axe  Man"  had  reached  Houston  and  was  looking  over 
the -field  before  beginning  his  destructive  work  here.  The  de- 
scription of  how  the  negroes  were  using  charms  to  ward  off  the 
disaster,  which  they  feared  was  pending,  was  peculiarly  amusing 
to  me  because  I  recognized  that  the  negro  of  today  is  the  same 
as  the  negro  of  my  boyhood  days.  They  are  better  educated, 
of  course,  but  you  can't  educate  superstition  and  the  belief  in 
charms  out  of  a  negro,  and  it  is  useless  to  try.  "Hants,"  "hoo- 
doos"  and  "spirits"  are  just  as  potent  today  as  they  have  ever 
been  with  the  negroes. 

When  I  was  a  boy  I  had  as  implicit  faith  in  the  reality  of 
ghosts  as  I  had  in  anything,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  I  was 
born  a  Doubting  Thomas.  The  negroes  taught  me  all  kinds  of 
nonsense  and  I  became  as  superstitious  as  they.  I  was  not 
alone  in  this  for  my  state  was  common  to  all  boys  raised  in  the 
South  among  the  negroes.  I  would  no  more  dream  of  going  in 
swimming  without  a  string  tied  round  my  ankle  to  ward  off 
cramps  or  to  allow  another  boy  to  stunt  my  growth  by  stepping 
over  me  while  I  was  lying  down  than  I  would  have  thought  of 
jumping  off  the  highest  building  in  town.  All  three  would  prove 
fatal  and  I  knew  it. 

Ghosts,  however,  were  our  strong  points.  Graveyards  were 
shunned,  even  after  early  twilight,  and  after  dark  no  boy  would 
venture  near  one  alone  for  anything.  One  of  the  greatest  panics  . 
I  ever  was  mixed*  up  in  was  caused  by  this  universal  fear  of 
ghosts.  Four  or  five  of  us  had  been  out  hunting  up  Buffalo 
Bayou  beyond  the  old  San  Felipe  graveyard.  We  had  stayed 
longer  than  we  intended  and  it  was  quite  dark  when  we  came 
down  the  road  by  the  side  of  the  cemetery.  Each  boy  recognized 
the  dangerous 'position  we  were  in,  but  not  the  slightest  reference 
was  made  to  the  graveyard.  We  walked  along  boldly,  each 
trying  to  get  as  far  away  from  the  cemetery  fence  as  he  could 
without  attracting  especial  attention  to  what  he  was  doing. 
There  were  several  negro  boys  with  us,  for  in  that  day  no  hunt- 
ing party  was  complete  unless  there  were  as  many  negro  boys 
as  white  ones.  These  negroes  were  frankly  afraid  and  did  not 
try  to  disguise  the  fact  that  they  were  shunning  that  fence.  We 
talked  loudly  about  everything  we  could  think  of  except  ghosts, 
though  each  boy  knew  that  these  latter  were  on  each  boy's  mind 


130 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

and  most  prominently  so,  too.  The  real  trouble  was  that  none 
of  the  boys  wanted  a  stampede,  through  fear  of  being  left  alone 
behind  or  of  getting  too  far  ahead  and  thus  finding  himself  alone 
there. 

All  went  well  until  about  half  of  our  perilous  journey  had  been 
made.  Then  inside  the  graveyard  a  great  white  object  was 
seen  to  rise  up  and  the  only  boys  left  on  the  scene  were  those 
who  had  not  seen  it.  Be  it  said  to  their  credit,  however,  that 
they  asked  no  questions  and  started  after  their  more  fortunate 
companions  at  a  breakneck  speed.  It  was  only  a  newspaper 
in  which  some  one  who  had  carried  flowers  out  there  had  thrown 
aside,  but  had  it  been  a  devil  with  ten  horns  it  could  not  have 
been  more  potent  in  starting  that  crowd.  We  did  not  stop  until 
we  reached'town  and  then  we  halted  only  because  we  were  out 
of  breath.  That  was  quickest  time  ever  made  over  that  old 
San  Felipe  road  and  that  piece  of  newspaper  was  responsible 
for  our  getting  home  much  sooner  than  we  otherwise  would 
have  gotten  there.  The  other  day  I  read  a  story  of  a  negro 
who  had  been  left  in  a  haunted  house  with  a  bottle  of  whiskey 
and  the  promise  that  he  would  be  given  $5  the  next  morning 
if  he  remained  there  all  night.  About  midnight  something  hap- 
pened and  the  negro  promptly  tore  out  the  front  side  of  the 
house  and  left.  Four  days  after  he  was  seen  coming  up  the 
road.  "Where  have  you  been?"  asked  one  of  the  fellows  who 
had  hired  him  to  stay  in  the  house.  "Why,  boss,"  the  negro 
replied,  "I  been  comin'  back."  That  was  our  fix  exactly.  We 
reached  our  goal  so  quickly  that  getting  there  did  not  count 
at  all. 

But  the  negroes'  strongest  belief  was,  and  is  yet,  centered  in 
the  hoodoo  and  they  fear  a  hoodoo  negro  worse  than  they  fear 
the  devil  himself.  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that  they  are 
prepared  to  believe  in  hoodoo  white  men  as  well  as  hoodoo  ne- 
gro men. 

I  remember  a  laughable  instance  of  this  kind  of  faith  on  their 
part.  A  friend  of  mine  had  a  cook  who  was  absolutely  no  cook 
at  all,  but  his  wife  liked  something  about  her  and  would  not 
consent  to  her  being  discharged.  My  friend  was  in  despair,  but 
finally  thought  of  a  plan  for  getting  rid  of  her.  He  acted  mys- 
teriously and  when  she  was  in  hearing  he  would  mumble  non- 
sense- and  repeat  a  kind  of  jargon  in  a  low  tone.  This  bore 
fruit  and  she  began  to  watch  his  every  movement  with  evident 
suspicion.  One  day  he  saw  her  go  in  her  room,  which  was  in 
the  back  yard,  and  he  could  see  that  she  was  watching  him 
through  a  crack  in  the  door.  He  slipped  up  and  made  a  mark 
on  the  steps  with  a  piece  of  red  chalk.  When  she  came  out 
she  avoided  that  mark  as  though  it  were  a  snake  and  she  poured 
hot  ashes  and  lye  all  over  it.  My  friend,  a  few  days  later,  saw 
her  go  into  her  room  again  and  take  a  position  from  which  she 
could  watch  him.  He  had  prepared  himself  for  just  such  a 
situation.  He  slipped  up  and  placed  a  small  package,  done  up 
in  red  flannel,  under  the  steps  and  crept  cautiously  away.  He 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 131 

waited  to  see  what  the  cook  would  do,  but  he  waited  in  vain.  He 
saw  nothing  of  her.  Finally  his  wife  wanted  her  for  some  pur- 
pose and,  receiving  no  reply  to  her  calls,  went  out  to  investi- 
gate. She  found  the  room  empty.  The  cook  had  crawled  out 
of  a  back  window,  had  climbed  over  a  high  board  fence  and  had 
made  her  escape  into  the  street.  That  evening  a  drayman 
came  for  her  things,  but  she  herself  never  »did  show  up  again, 
not  even  to  get  a  small  amount  of  wages  due  her. 

Right  after  the  war  there  was  a  little  old  negro  here  who  was 
known  to  everybody  as  "Crazy  Harry."  He  was  very  eccentric 
and  would  abuse  and  curse  whites  and  blacks  with  equal  im- 
punity, for  no  one  paid  any  attention  to  what  he  said  or  did. 
The  negroes  got  it  in  their  heads  that  he  was  a  great  hoodoo 
doctor  and  that  he  could  summon  the  devil  to  help  him  when- 
ever he  chose.  They  feared  and  hated  him,  but  they  treated  him 
with  marked  consideration  and  courtesy  whenever  he  was  around. 
Harry  recognized  his  advantageous  position  and  did  everything 
to  add  to  his  evil  repute. 

Some  of  his  capers  were  amusing  in  the  extreme  and  at  some 
future  time  I  intend  devoting  an  entire  article  to  him  and  his 
doings,  for  he  was  a  character  whose  memory  deserves  preser- 
vation. I  will  say  here  that  his  leading  characteristic  was 
hatred  of  the  Yankee  soldiers  who  were  in  possession  of  Houston 
right  after  the  war.  He  hated  every  one  of  them,  from  the 
commanding  general  down  to  the  lowest  private,  and  played  no 
favorites  when  he  distributed  his  abuse  of  them.  But  enough 
of  Old  Harry  for  this  time. 


RELICS  OF  THE   WAR. 

WALKING  down  Main  Street  the  other  day  I  saw  in  one 
of  the  show  windows  an  assortment  of  shot  and  shell 
which,    according   to   an    attached    card,    were   taken 
out  of  the  bayou  near  the  Milam  Street  bridge.     These  had  all 
been  nicely  cleaned  and  painted  black,  so  that  they  looked  as 
good  as  new,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  had  remained  so 
many  years  in  the  mud  of  Buffalo  Bayou. 

One  would  naturally  suppose  that  they  had  been  thrown  in 
the  bayou  to  keep  them  from  falling  into  the  hands  of  the  Fed- 
erals who  at  that  time  were  expected  to  invade  Texas.  Such, 
however,  was  not  the  case.  Lee  had  surrendered;  Johnson  had 
surrendered  and  the  Trans-Mississippi  department  of  the  Con- 
federate states  was  alone  in  its  glory  to  represent  the  Confed- 
eracy. However,  the  soldiers  of  the  Trans-Mississippi  depart- 
ment did  not  care  for  such  an  honor  and  those  stationed  at  Gal- 
veston,  Houston  and  other  points  on  the  coast,  having  no  enemy 
in  sight  to  whom  to  surrender,  concluded  to  take  matters  in 
their  own  hands  and  just  quit.  Having  quit  they  concluded  to 
take  with  them  everything  movable  that  belonged  to  the  Con- 
federacy. Horses,  wagons,  guns  and  ammunition  were  seized 


132 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

wherever  found,  and  of  these  powder  and  lead  were  more  sought 
after  than  all  else.  At  that  time  there  was  a  large  two-story 
brick  house  on  the  corner  of  Travis  and  Congress  Avenue,  north 
side  of  market  square,  owned  by  Jack  Kennedy,  the  father  of 
the  late  John  Kennedy  and  father-in-law  of  Wm.  Foley.  The 
building  extended  back  on  Travis  Street  where  Foley's  store 
now  is.  This  building  was  occupied  by  the  Confederates  and 
was  used  as  a  factory  for  making  percussion  caps  and  cartridges. 
Where  Foley's  store  now  stands  was  used  as  a  warehouse  and 
in  it  were  stored  boxes  of  cartridges,  caissons  filled  with  ammuni- 
tion for  field  guns,  rifles  and  any  kind  of  ammunition  except 
that  for  heavy  guns.  There  was  a  large  quantity  of  cannon 
powder,  hand  grenades  and  large  bombs  stored  over  in  the  old 
powder  house  near  the  city  cemetery,  northwest  of  the  Central 
Railway  depot.  The  powder  house  was  broken  open  by  the 
soldiers  and  its  contents,  proving  undesirable,  were  scattered 
over  the  ground  or  rolled  down  the  hill  into  White  Oak  Bayou. 
The  next  move  was  on  the  Kennedy  building  and  here  they 
reaped  a  rich  harvest.  Boxes  of  cartridges  were  broken  open 
and  their  contents  appropriated.  Sacks  of  powder  were  ripped 
open  and  when  found  to  be  cannon  powder,  they  were  thrown  on 
the  floor.  Soon  the  floor  was  covered  with  powder,  loose  per- 
cussion caps  and  an  indescribable  assortment  and  litter  of 
dangerous  things.  There  were  hundreds  of  rough  shod  men 
trampling  and  stamping  over  this  and  the  wonder  is  that  the 
whole  place  and  everybody  for  blocks  around  were  not  blown 
to  pieces. 

The  remarkable  thing  is  that  no  one  seemed  to  realize  that 
there  was  the  least  danger  and  it  was  a  good  natured,  jolly 
crowd  that  went  on  with  the  work  of  looting.  One  shining  ex- 
ample of  an  opposite  opinion  was  the  owner  of  the  building, 
Mr.  Kennedy.  He  realized  the  danger  to  the  fullest  extent  and 
did  all  in  his  power  to  check  such  recklessness.  He  begged 
and  implored  the  crowd  to  get  out  and  let  him  lock  the  doors 
and  pointed  out  the  almost  certain  explosion  and  consequent 
destruction  if  a  halt  were  not  made.  All  his  talk  fell  on  deaf 
ears  and  finally  in  desperation  he  took  matters  in  his  own  hands. 
He  hired  a  lot  of  men  and  giving  them  buckets  full  of  water 
he  flooded  the  place.  There  were  no  hydrants  or  water  works 
at  that  time  so  the  water  was  drawn  from  a  cistern  and  the 
buckets  passed  from  hand  to  hand  until  the  place  was  flooded. 
Late  in  the  evening  everything  worth  saving  had  been  carried 
off  by  the  soldiers,  but  the  shells  and  hand  granades  with  a  lot 
of  fuses  remained.  These  were  all  dangerous/of  course,  so  Mr. 
Kennedy  concluded  to  get  rid  of  them.  He  hired  some  drays 
and  teams,  loaded  the  shells  on  them  and,  carting  them  down  to 
the  Milam  Street  bridge,  known  then  as  "the  iron  bridge,"  he 
had  them  cast  in  the  bayou. 

There  must  be  hundreds  of  them  there  yet.  From  time  to 
time  during  the  prevaTence  of  a  norther,  the  water  in  the  bayou 
falls  so  as  to  reveal  those  which  were  dumped  off  near  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 133 

banks.  These  were  fished  out  and  saved  as  relics,  but  no  doubt 
hundreds  of  others  lie  deeply  buried  in  the  mud  or  in  such  deep 
water  that  they  are  never  exposed. 

In  1866  a  severe  norther  blew  the  water  out  of  the  bayou,  re- 
vealing a  number  of  these  shells  near  the  bank.  Two  young  men, 
who  were  machinists  in  McGowan's  foundry,  fished  one  of  the 
shells  out  of  the  mud  and  placed  it  on  the  bank  to  dry.  When 
dinner  time  came  they  took  their  hammers  and  tools  and  tried 
to  get  the  fuse  out  of  the  shell.  They  had  worked  but  a  few 
moments  when  there  was  a  terrible  explosion  and  both  young 
men  were  instantly  killed,  being  horribly  mangled. 

A  negro  living  out  near  the  Hardcastle  place  in  the  Fourth 
Ward  got  two  or  three  of  these  old  shells  out  of  the  bayou.  He 
left  them  lying  around  his  yard  for  a  long  time,  not  knowing 
they  were  dangerous.  One  day  while  cleaning  up  his  yard  he 
raked  the  trash  up  over  one  of  the  bombs  and  set  fire  to  it.  The 
explosion  that  followed  alarmed  the  whole  neighborhood,  but 
fortunately  did  no  damage  to  any  one.  It  is  safe  to  say  that 
the  other  shells  belonging  to  the  negro's  collection  now  rest  at 
the  bottom  of  the  bayou  which  runs  near  his  place. 


"CONSTITUTION   BEND." 

I   DON'T  blame  outsiders  very  much  for  laughing  at  Houston's 
ship  channel  when  they  receive  their  only  impression  of 
what  the  channel  is  from  the  end  of  it  that  lies  within  the 
city  limits.    If  I  did  not  know  that  a  short  street  car  ride  would 
land  me  on  the  banks  of  the  real  channel,  very  wide  and  very 
deep — a  waterway  that  by  easy  engineering  can  be  made  a  sec- 
ond Manchester  Canal — I  would  be  tempted  to  laugh  too.    The 
bayou  at  the  foot  of  Main  Street  is  not  of  proportions  to  sug-   ' 
gest  great  confidence,  nor  is  its  greasy,  dirty  and  sluggish  water 
such  as  to  inspire  much  respect. 

As  the  city  has  grown  the  bayou  has  shrunk.  The  bed  has 
gradually  filled  up  with  debris,  washed  from  the  streets,  and 
the  bayou  has  become  much  smaller.  In  former  years  Buffalo 
Bayou  was  really  an  attractive  stream.  Its  water  was  clear, 
its  banks  were  grassy  and  full  of  wild  flowers,  and  on  the  whole 
it  was  a  beautiful  stream.  I  can  remember  when  all  that  part 
of  the  Fifth  Ward  that  comes  down  to  the  point  where  White 
Oak  and  Buffalo  Bayou  meet  was  a  dense  forest  and  a  great 
picnic  ground.  A  steamboat  or  barge  would  be  swung  across 
the  bayou  and  the  picknickers  would  cross  on  it  as  a  bridge. 
The  baou  was  very  deep,  too,  having  a  natural  depth  at  the  foot 
of  Main  Street  of  from  fifteen  to  eighteen  feet.  I  don't  know 
how  deep  it  is  now,  but  it  can  not  be  very  deep  anywhere  along 
there,  owing  to  the  sand  and  mud  that  has  filled  it  up. 

Some  miles  below  Houston  there  used  to  be  a  big  beifd  in 
the  bayou  called  "Constitution  Bend."  At  this  point  the  bayou 
is  very  deep  and  wide.  I  can  remember  when  I  was  a  child 


134  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

trying  to  find  out  why  it  was  called  "Constitution"  Bend.  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  ever  found  any  one  who  knew.  Lately  I 
discovered  the  reason,  or  rather,  a  possible  explanation. 

In  1838  Mr.  John  K.  Allen  gave  the  captain  of  the  steamer 
Constitution  $1000  to  bring  his  boat  to  the  foot  of  Main  Street. 
The  Constitution  was  an  ocean-going  vessel  that  plied  between 
Galveston  and  New  Orleans.  She  had  a  terrible  time  getting 
from*  Harrisburg  to  Houston  and  after  she  got  here  she  could 
not  turn  around,  but  had  to  back  down  to  a  big  bend  below  the 
city.  There  is  no  record  of  her  having  made  a  second  trip,  but 
it  is  evident  that  she  gave  her  name  to  the  bend.  Constitution 
Bend  has  been  eliminated  by  a  cut-off  channel  dredged  in  re- 
cent years. 

The  Laura  and  the  Yellowstone,  the  two  steamers  that  had 
been  in  the  trade  for  about  a  year  before  then,  were  small  affairs 
and  could  turn  with  ease.  Had  the  Constitution  been  on  to  the 
trick  developed  later  by  the  steamboat  men  she  could  have 
turned  also.  The  thing  was  very  simple  and  easily  accom- 
plished. The  bow  of  the  boat  was  tied  to  the  bank  beyond  the 
mouth  of  White  Oak  Bayou  and  then  the  stern  was  backed  into 
that  bayou,  the  bow  hauled  down  stream,  and  there  you  were, 
as  nice  a  turn  as  possible.  In  later  years  much  larger  boats 
than  the  Constitution  came  to  Houston  regularly  and  none  of 
them  ever  had  the  slightest  trouble  in  turning. 

The  Laura,  Captain  Griffin,  was  the  first  boat  that  ever  came 
up  the  bayou  to  Houston.  She  arrived  at  the  foot  of  Main 
Street  January  22,  1837,  and  it  took  her  two  days  to  get  from 
Harrisburg  to  Houston.  Not  long  after  the  Laura's  exploit  the 
Yellowstone,  Captain  West,  arrived  here,  coming  through  the 
West  Bay  at  Galveston,  from  Quintana. 

However,  the  largest  ocean-going  steamer  that  has  ever  been 
to  the  foot  of  Main  Street  was  a  blockade  runner.  I  don't  re- 
member her  name.  She  came  up  here  during  the  spring  of  1863 
and  anchored  at  the  foot  of  Main  Street,  but  afterward  dropped 
down  and  discharged  her  cargo  of  war  munitions  near  the  foot 
of  San  Jacinto  Street.  There  was  a  big  flood  in  the  Bayou  and, 
the  water  being  very  high,  she  had  no  trouble  either  in  coming 
or  getting  away.  It  is  possible  that  Captain  Bill  Flagg  knows 
something  about  this  steamer,  for  he  was  in  the  Confederate 
navy  and  had  much  to  do  with  blockaders  and  blockade  running 
during  the  war. 

It  is  not  going  to  be  so  very  long  now  when  genuine,  bona 
fide  ocean-going  vessels  will  be  running  regularly  to  the  foot  of 
Main  Street,  and  it  is  well  to  put  these  pioneer  steamers  on  rec- 
ord for  the  use  of  future  historians. 

*  *  * 

LEFT  HAND   FISHING   CLUB   AS  CRITICS, 

NEARLY  all  the  moving  pictures  bear  this  announcement: 
"Censored  by  the  national  board,"  etc.    That,  of  course, 
is  to  guarantee  that  no  improper  shows  slip  by.  I  under- 
stand that  Houston  also  has  a  board  of  censors,  whose  duties 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 135 

are  to  guard  the  good  people  from  being  shocked.  In  the  olden 
days  there  was  nothing  of  that  kind  attempted  and  the  places  of 
amusement  had  everything  their  own  way  and  did  whatever  they 
pleased.  Of  course,  some  of  the  plays  and  exhibitions  they  put 
on  were  outrageous  and  scarcely  fit  for  anyone,  but  there  was 
no  other  remedy  than  to  boycott  them  or  literally  run  them  out 
of  town. 

I  remember  a  novel  and  most  effective  plan  adopted  by  Chief 
Coyle  and  a  number  of  the  members  of  the  "Left  Hand  Fishing 
Club,"  for  suppressing  one  of  those  shows,  which  created  immense 
amusement  at  the  time.  It  was  a  sort  of  Adamless  Eden  Com- 
pany and  had  about  15  or  20  girls  who  were  traveling  on  their 
shapes.  The  first  night  the  house  was  crowded,  but  nearly  all 
the  respectable  people  left  before  the  show  was  half  over.  The 
next  night  the  "Left  Hand  Fishing  Club"  took  the  matter  in  hand. 
A  number  of  them  secured  seats,  all  in  a  row,  near  the  front. 
They  sat  quietly  and  with  a  wonderful  amount  of  dignity,  until 
the  curtain  rose  on  the  great  scene,  which  was  the  troupe  of 
girls  all  dressed  up,  or  more  properly  speaking,  all  undressed 
up.  Then  each  member  of  the  club,  with  a  face  as  serious  as 
if  he  were  at  a  funeral,  produced  from  under  his  coat  a  big  tin 
cylinder,  which  he  carefully  extended  into  a  telescope  about 
four  feet  long  and  with  it  slowly  reviewed  the  whole  line  of 
beauty.  The  effect  was  marvelous.  The  girls  could  not  stand 
the  thing  and  broke  for  cover  behind  the  wings  of  the  stage, 
while  the  audience  went  wild  with  delight  and  the  show  came 
to  an  abrupt  end.  The  funniest  part  of  the  whole  thing  was 
the  serious  faces  of  the  "Left  Handers."  Not  one  of  them 
smiled  and  all  seemed  puzzled  to  understand  what  had  occurred. 

In  the  early  seventies  there  were  several  good  amateur  and 
semi-professional  actors  in  Houston.  There  was  Charley  Wal- 
lace, a  professional  actor,  who  had  great  talent,  and  Charley 
Evans,  a  scene  painter  and  actor,  besides  a  number  of  amateurs. 
Above  and  far  beyond  all  was  Captain  Charles  Bickley,  who 
wrote  plays  and  often  took  prominent  parts  in  them.  He  was  a 
great  favorite  among  the  professionals,  for  he  had  written  a  play 
for  a  young  actress  which  had  made  for  her  fame  and  fortune. 
He  gave  it  to  her  and  as  it  proved  a  success  and  had  a  long  run 
in  New  York  and  made  a  fortune  for  her  all  the  actors  watched 
the  captain  closely,  hoping  he  would  do  something  of  the  kind 
for  them.  They  always  gladly  helped  him  to  put  on  anything  he 
would  write. 

On  one  occasion  the  captain  produced  one  of  his  plays  at  Per- 
kins Hall.  He  insisted  on  taking  the  leading  part,  but  unfor- 
tunately he  took  so  many  drinks  during  the  first  act  that  it  be- 
came necessary  to  kill  the  hero,  which  was  Bickley,  in  that  act, 
an  event  scheduled  to  come  off  at  the  end  of  the  play.  Then 
the  plot  was  changed  and  the  piece  was  played  kind  of  back- 
wards, presenting  the  most  confusing  and  amazing  complica- 
tions imaginable.  It  was  wonderful  and  to  add  to  the  fun  of  the 
situation,  Captain  Bickley  could  be  heard  behind  the  scenes, 


136 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

insisting  that  it  was  his  time  to  go  on.  He  and  the  other  actors 
were  having  more  work  off  the  stage  than  were  those  on  it.  If 
anyone  ever  found  out  what  the  plot  of  that  play  was  I  never 
heard  of  it.  It  was  said  by  some  who  had  read  it  before  its 
murder,  to  have  been  very  good,  but  it  never  had  a  fair  chance 
to  display  its  merits.  There  is  one  thing  sure,  the  audience 
would  not  have,  had  such  a  good  time  as  they  did  if  the  captain 
had  remained  sober. 

Now  I  don't  want  anyone  to  form  a  false  idea  of  Captain  Bick- 
ley.  He  was  just  exactly  as  I  have  pictured  him — a  real  Bo- 
hemian, and  he  would,  if  he  could  write  about  himself  just  as 
I  have  written.  He  was  really  a  remarkable  man  and  a  genius. 
He  wrote  the  play  I  have  mentioned  in  the  foregoing,  for  a  little 
actress  named  Elsie  Weston.  She  belonged  to  a  stock  com- 
pany here  and  had  considerable  talent  both  as  a  singer  and 
actress.  Captain  Bickley  wrote  several  songs  for  her  and  finally 
wrote  a  play  for  her.  It  was  called  the  "Shadows  of  London" 
or  something  like  that.  Elsie  went  to  New  York,  got  the  play 
put  on  by  some  manager  and  it  met  with  instant  success  and 
had  a  long  and  brilliant  run.  Elsie  then  went  to  Europe  and 
the  play  was  successful  over  there.  She  made  a  fortune  out  of 
it,  but  I  don't  think  Captain  Bickley  ever  received  but  one  or 
two  short  letters  from  her  after  she  went  North.  I  am  sure  he 
never  got  a  cent  of  money  from  her. 

The  most  amazing  thing  about  Bickley  was,  when,  where  and 
how  he  found  time  to  write  anything  at  all.  He  was  always  on 
the  street,  night  and  day,  and  apparently  did  nothing  but  enjoy 
life.  After  midnight  he  was  generally  loaded  and  singing  that 
favorite  song  of  his  which  was  a  sort  of  barometer  telling  his 
condition. 

I  was  talking  to  Dr.  George  McDonnell  the  other  day  and  he 
told  me  about  a  green  policeman  arresting  Bickley  one  night. 
The  policeman,  who  was  a  new  hand,  saw  Bickley  staggering 
along  and  "pinched"  him.  Bickley  was  indignant  and  tried  to 
explain1.  "I  am  Br-uic-ly,"  he  mumbled,  "Br-uic-ly,  don't  you 
know?" 

"I  don't  care  if  you  are  a  bricklayer,"  said  the  policeman,  "you 
are  going  with  me,"  and  he  took  him  to  the  station  where  he 
was  at  once  released,  of  course,  for  he  was  as  great  a  favorite 
with  the  members  of  the  "force"  as  he  was  with  everybody  else. 


OLD   PEG. 

I    SUSPECT  that  I  have  been  rather  more  than  half  Bohemian 
all  my  life  without  being  conscious  of  it.    In  no  other  way 
can  I  account  for  the  fact  that  every  tramp  printer  or  tele- 
graph operator  that  has  been  in  Texas  during  the  past  20  or 
30  years  has  gravitated  toward  me  as  naturally  as  if  I  were  the 
object  point  of  his  search.    I  have  known  them  all,  and  I  confess 
the  wide  acquaintance  I  fca-v©  had  m  that  line  has  giveA  me 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 137 

more  pleasure  than  annoyance.  Jim  Baker,  "Shorty"  Parish  and 
one  or  two  others  among  the  printers  and  "Peg"  among  the 
telegraph  operators  were  characters  whose  acquaintance  at  times 
was  rather  embarrassing,  but  on  the  whole  rather  beneficial. 
All  of  the  even  moderately  old  printers  remember  the  first  two 
I  have  named,  while  I  am  sure  all  the  telegraphers  of  the  80's 
remember  the  last,  for  he  was  a  character  never  to  be  forgotten. 
"Peg"  was  not  his  proper  name,  of  course.  He  had  a  Christian 
and  a  surname,  too,  but  he  also  had  a  wooden  leg,  and  that  took 
precedence  over  everything  else,  and  he  became  "Peg"  and 
nothing  else. 

He  was  one  of  the  most  expert  operators  that  ever  struck 
Texas.  He  was  what  was  called  an  Associated  Press  operator 
and  could  take  and  send  more  copy  during  a  night  than  any- 
body. He  was  high-toned  and  swore  he  would  never  work  for 
less  than  $35  per  week,  and  as  such  jobs  were  scarce  and,  even 
when  he  got  one,  hard  to  hold,  because  he  would  celebrate  his 
success  at  the  end  of  the  first  week  when  he  was  paid  off,  he 
was  generally  idle.  He  had  lost  one  of  his  legs  in  a  railroad  ac- 
cident, having  gone  to  sleep  and  fallen  off  the  brakebeam,  or 
something  of  that  kind.  The  railroad  patched  him  up  in  one  of 
the  hospitals  and  gave  him  a  fine  wooden  leg  to  say  nothing 
more  about  the  matter.  The  leg  was  really  a  fine  one,  and 
"Peg"  could,  and  did,  get  from  $10  to  $15  on  it  at  any  pawnshop. 

During  his  periods  of  temporary  pecuniary  embarrassment  he 
had  another  leg  for  everyday  use.  This  was  simply  an  old-fash- 
ioned broomstick  looking  affair,  which  while  not  ornamental  was 
quite  useful.  It  got  so  that  one  could  tell  the  financial  standing 
of  "Peg"  by  the  style  of  leg  he  wore.  He  had  been  all  over  the 
country,  knew  all  the  newspaper  men  from  Chicago  to  San 
Francisco  and  in  every  city  and  big  town  in  Texas.  He  was 
a  great  talker,  and  when  only  half-loaded  was  very  amusing. 
He  told  some  good  stories,  too.  I  remember  one  in  particular 
that  will  bear  retelling,  though,  of  course,  I  can't  tell  it  as  he 
did.  It  was  in  the  News  office  one  night  after  "30"  had  been 
sent  to  the  composing  room  and  we  were  all  indulging  in  a  talk. 
"Peg"  held  the  floor. 

"Gent-teel-men,"  said  he,  "you  can  talk  about  your  'hot  towns' 
as  much  as  you  want  to,  but  Santone  takes  the  cake.  I  was  out 
there  last  winter  and  I  had  the  time  of  my  life.  There  was  a 
big  variety  show  going  on  down  on  one  of  the  plazas  and,  of 
course,  I  went  to  see  it.  The  place  was  crowded  and  I  got  a 
seat  away  back  near  the  door,  and  I  was  glad  afterward  that  I 
did.  The  show  was  nearly  over  when  a  drunken  cowboy  came 
in.  He  had  two  big  guns  strapped  round  his  waist  and  a  bowie 
knife  that  looked  like  a  young  sword.  He  refused  to  take  his 
hat  off  and  made  a  terrible  row  about  it  when  a  man  asked 
him  to  remove  his  hat  and  sit  down.  He  swaggered  about  and 
the  show  had  to  stop  for  a  minute  or  two.  He  ordered  a  bottle 
of  champagne  and  then,  catching  sight  of  the  boxes  on  the  edge 
of  the  stage,  he  made  for  one.  Everybody  seemed  to  be  afraid 


138 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

of  him  and  tried  to  quiet  and  pacify  him.  When  he  reached 
the  box  he  tore  down  the  curtains  and  ordered  three  girls  to 
bring  him  three  bottles  of  champagne,  which  they  did  in  a  hurry. 
The  show  had  been  forced  to  come,  to  a  standstill  by  now  and 
everybody  was  watching  the  cowboy. 

"While  he  was  drinking  his  wine  a  fellow  on  the  stage  began 
to  sing.  The  cowboy  promptly  ordered  him  to  stop.  The  fellow 
paid  no  attention,  but  went  on  singing.  The  cowboy  hammered 
on  the  box  with  a  bottle  and  made  a  terrible  racket.  Finally  the 
singer  got  mad  and,  advancing  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  asked 
if  there  was  not  an  officer  in  the  house  to  take  that  drunken 
nuisance  out  and  lock  him  up.  There  was  no  response,  for  the 
policeman,  if  there  was  one  there,  was  hidden  out.  The  singer 
repeated  his  request  for  an  officer  and  finally  the  cowboy  said 
to  him  that  if  he  wanted  him  put  out  so  bad  he  had  better 
undertake  the  job  himself. 

"The  singer  was  game  and  accepted  the  challenge  and  an- 
nounced that  he  would  do  so.  He  advanced  to  the  side  of  the 
stage  and  began  climbing  up  to  the  box.  It  was  about  ten  feet, 
being  on  the  second  tier.  The  cowboy  sat  right  still  until  the 
fellow  got  nearly  to  the  top,  then  he  reached  out  and  caught  him 
by  the  collar  of  his  coat  and  dragged  him  into  the  box.  They 
dropped  to  the  floor  in  a  clinch,  but  as  they  fell  I  saw  the  cowboy 
had  his  knife  in  his  hand.  The  girls  fled.  The  table  was 
knocked  over  and  there  was  a  terrible  racket  for  a  few  minutes. 
Then  I  saw  them  rise,  the  cowboy  holding  the  singer  by  the 
back  of  the  neck.  He  rammed  him  face  foremost  against  the 
wall  and  rammed  that  big  knife  through  him  twice  and  then, 
slamming  it  plumb  through  him  between  the  shoulders,  he  left 
it  sticking  in  his  body  and,  picking  him  up,  hurled  him  out  of 
the  box  to  the  stage  below. 

"It  was  all  over  in  a  minute  and  there  was  the  biggest  stam- 
pede you  ever  saw.  The  whole  audience  made  for  the  door  in 
one  solid  mass,  and  I  was  working  well  in  the  lead,  in  spite  of 
having  only  one  good  leg  to  work  with.  When  I  struck  the  side- 
walk I  lit  out  in  good  style  and  ran  two  blocks  before  I  stopped. 
I  saw  a  policeman  and  I  rushed  to  him:  'You  better  go  down 
yonder,'  I  said;  'a  cowboy  just  murdered  a  man  in  the  theatre 
down  there.'  H«  looked  at  me  and  grinned.  'That's  all  right,' 
he  said.  'They  have  been  killing  that  same  man  for  two  nights 
now.  It's  part  of  the  show.'  Then  I  realized  that  I  had  been 
sold  and  I  took  the  policeman  into  the  Buckhorn  Saloon  and 
threw  a  couple  of  scoops  into  him  to  keep  quiet." 

"Hold  on,"  said  "Peg,"  as  we  started  to  leave,  "that  story  is 
not  finished.  The  best  part  is  to  come.  The  next  night  I  went 
back  to  enjoy  the  fun  of  seeing  the  stampede,  now  that  I  knew 
it  was  all  a  part  of  the  show.  I  got  a  seat  near  the  end  of  a 
row  near  the  middle  of  the  house,  and  there  is  where  I  was  a 
fool.  The  cowboy  came  in  and  went  through  the  same  perform- 
ance. There  was  the  same  stampede,  too,  but  it  started  sooner 
than  I  calculated.  There  was  a  big  Dutchman  near  me  and  he 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 139 

stampeded  at  the  first  flash  of  the  knife  and  took  the  whole 
tier  of  seats  with  him.  In  the  rush  they  got  my  leg,  the  broom- 
stick one,  jammed  in  the  seat  and  broke  it  square  off.  Then 
they  walked  all  over  me,  and  I  never  saw  a  thing.  When  the 
dust  settled  they  found  me  all  spraddled  out  on  the  floor.  The 
proprietor  acted  pretty  square.  He  set  'em  up  two  or  three 
times,  sent  me  home  in  a  hack  and  had  a  carpenter  come  round 
early  the  next  morning  and  fix  my  stem,  and  that-  night  I  left 
for  El  Paso.  Santone  was  too  strenuous  for  me." 


INDIANS    IN    HOUSTON. 

ONLY  the  real  old,  old  timers  can  remember  the  days  when 
Houston  had  free  "wild  West"  shows — the  days  when 
the  Indians  were  here.  There  was  a  tribe  living  near 
Houston  in  the  early  days  and  they  used  to  come  to  town  quite 
often.  They  brought  venison,  bear  meat  and  other  game  and 
also  brought  skins  and  pelts.  In  1836  there  was  a  trading  post 
down  near  the  bayou,  where  the  residence  of  Mr.  Horace  Taylor 
was  located  afterward,  but  in  1850  and  for  a  few  years  later 
the  Indians  had  no  particular  place  at  which  to  trade.  Generally 
they  did  most  of  their  trading  with  John  Kennedy  and  Cornelius 
Ennis.  Mr.  Kennedy  got  most  of  the  trade,  however,  because 
his  whiskey  was  the  strongest,  perhaps,  and  then,  too,  old  Mingo, 
the  chief,  was  a  great  friend  of  Mr.  Kennedy,  whom  he  consid1 
ered  a  great  man. 

Those  Indians  would  come  in  town  like  lambs  but  would  go 
away  like  raging  lions.  They  would  come  in  looking  like  a  lot 
of  dirty  vagabonds,  but  a  few  drinks  of  whiskey  would  trans- 
form them  into  veritable  warriors  and  wild  west  acrobats. 
Their  capers  and  antics  were  amusing  and  everybody  turned  out 
to  see  them.  On  one  occasion  Mr.  Ennis  presented  Mingo,  the 
chief,  with  a  dilapidated  buggy  and  harness.  Mingo  at  once 
hitched  his  war  horse,  a  little  mustang  pony,  to  the  buggy  and 
the  pony  resented  the  indignity,  of  course.  There  were  all  kinds 
of  antics  cut  up  before  the  pony  could  be  brought  to  enter  into 
the  spirit  of  the  game,  but  Mingo  persevered  and  finally  con- 
quered. Then  he  proceeded  to  get  drunk,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  proceeded  to  keep  drunk,  to  celebrate  his  added  glory. 
He  drove  all  over  town  and  would  not  leave  his  buggy  even  to 
get  a  drink,  and  he  drew  the  line  on  going  home  and  stayed  two 
days  to  celebrate.  I  remember  those  Indians  well,  for  all  my 
life  I  have  been  afraid  of  Indians,  of  the  tame  ones  as  much  as 
the  wild  ones.  They  generally  had  their  knives  and  guns  with 
them,  and  I  was  not  alone  in  being  afraid  of  them.  I  was  talk- 
ing to  ex-Mayor  Lord,  who  is  also  an  ex-officer  of  many  kinds, 
the  other  day  about  those  Indians,  and  he  told  me  that  while 
he  was  city  marshal,  or  something  of  that  kind,  some  of  the 
Indians  got  drunk  and  one  big  fellow  got  very  bad.  He  had  a 
big  bottle  of  whiskey.  Mr.  Lord  said  he  did  not  care  to  tackle 


140 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

a  drunken  Indian  because  he  did  not  know  anything  about  In- 
dians, and  he  did  not  care  to  have  any  of  his  men  tackle  them 
either.  Still  he  recognized  the  fact  that  the  Indian  had  to  be 
arrested  and  locked  up.  Finally  he  hit  on  a  plan.  He  had  one 
of  his  friends  grab  the  bottle  of  whiskey  and  run  into  the  old 
calaboose  with  it.  He  knew  the  Indian  would  follow  the  whis- 
key. The  plan  worked  all  right.  The  Indian  ran  into  the  lockup 
and  the  decoy  duck  slipped  out  and  then  Mr.  Lord  locked  the 
door. 

There^  was  another  tribe  further  up  on  the  San  Jacinto  who 
used  to  come  to  Houston  also.  I  can  remember  a  gang  of  them 
bringing  a  big  buffalo  which  they  had  captured  or  stolen  some- 
where, and  hauling  it  a'bout  market  square.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  more  truthful  to  say  that  the  buffalo  hauled  the  Indians  about 
the  square,  for  that  is  what  it  did.  They  had  two  hair  lariats 
around  his  horns  and  guided  him  when  he  was  not  guiding  them. 
I  don't  know  what  they  ever  did  with  the  buffalo,  for  all  I  can 
remember  is  seeing  the  fun. 

Now,  one  would  suppose  that  having  a  lot  of  drunken  Indians 
about  would  be  a  great  nuisance,  and  I  suppose  it  was  at  times, 
but  as  a  rule  they  were  a  source  of  much  fun  and  amusement. 
It  is  really  a  pity  that  "high  life"  was  unknown  at  that  time,  for 
its  possibilities  for  extracting  strenuous  action  from  those  Indian 
ponies  would  have  been  most  welcome  by  the  fun  makers.  As 
it  was,  turpentine  had  to  do  duty,  and  many  a  drunken  Indian 
found  his  horse  prepared  to  share  his  wildness  and  activity  when 
he  staggered  out  of  a  saloon  or  a  back  room  of  a  grocery,  all 
through  the  kind  attention  of  some  unknown  gentlemen  who  had 
invested  their  money  in  turpentine  to  help  the  play  along.  For- 
tunately there  was  only  soft  mud  for  the  Indians  to  fall  on,  so 
no  damage  was  ever  done.  The  Indians  died  off  rapidly  and 
finally  a  few  survivors  were  moved  to  the  Indian  Territory,  north 
of  Red  River. 

The  old  chief  Mingo  was  really  an  Indian  gentleman.  He 
would  get  drunk,  of  course,  just  as  any  and  every  other  Indian 
will,  but  that  was  his  only  fault.  He  spoke  rather  good  English 
and  was  liked  by  the  citizens  of  Houston  with  whom  he  came  in 
contact.  I  think  he  died  before  his  tribe  moved  away,  but  I  am 
not  certain. 

*  *  * 

A  WAR  STORY. 

I     HAVE  no  patience  with  the  latter  day  heroes.    A  telegraph 
operator  is  on  a  sinkmg  boat  that  he  can't  leave,  much  as 
he  would  like  to  do  so.    He  sends   a  wireless   message, 
secures  aid  and  is  proclaimed  a  hero  and  given  a  reception  on 
his  arrival  in  New  York.    An  engineer  discovers  a  burning  bridge 
in  front  of  his  train.    He  reverses  his  engine,  puts  on  the  air- 
brakes and  rides  to  his  death  and  is  proclaimed  a  hero.    Now 
the  case  of  the  telegraph  operator  is  too  ridiculous  and  absurd 
to  discuss  at  all,  while  the  engineer  is  scarcely  better.    When 
he  had  reversed  his  engine  and  applied  his  air-brakes  he  had 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 141 

done  all  that  possibly  could  be  done,  and  when  he  did  not  jump 
or  try  to  save  himself  he  showed  that  he  was  more  of  a  fool  and 
idiot  than  a  hero. 

Perhaps  one  reason  why  I  am  so  prejudiced  against  the  latter 
day  "heroes"  is  that  I  have  known  one  or  two  of  the  genuine 
ones. 

For  a  number  of  years  Houston  entertained  an  angel  unaware 
in  the  person  of  a  man  who  was  regarded  as  a  crank  and  miser, 
but  who  was  in  fact  one  of  the  grandest  men  and  heroes  that 
ever  lived.  This  was  Judge  John  Duncan.  As  I  write  that  name 
I  can  see  some  of  the  old-timers  who  thought  they  knew  him, 
sit  up  and  take  notice.  I  admit  that  I  would  be  with  them  in 
doing  so  too,  if  I  did  not  know  the  judge's  history.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  only  two  persons  in  Houston  knew  anything  about  the 
judge,  for  he  was  not  given  to  talking  about  his  private  affairs 
and  resented  all  attempts  to  pry  into  them.  He  told  me  part 
of  his  story  and  Judge  George  Goldthwaite  told  me  the  latter 
part  of  it.  The  judge  had  but  one  leg,  having  lost  the  other 
while  in  command  of  a  Mississippi  regiment  during  the  war. 
He  had  an  old-fashioned  wooden  leg  and  one  could  hear  him 
coming  down  the  sidewalk  a  block  away.  He  was  very  sensitive 
about  his  missing  leg  and  no  one  ever  made  allusion  to  it  in 
his  presence.  One  evening  he  and  I  were  sitting  in  front  of  the 
Capitol  Hotel  and  I  asked  him  where  he  lost  his  leg. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "it  is  a  story  that  sounds  so  absurd  and  improb- 
able that  I  hate  to  speak  of  it  for  fear  that  my  friends  will  doubt 
either  my  veracity  or  saneness.  I  lost  it  in  battle,  which,  of 
course,  was  not  strange,  but  the  circumstances  were  most  won- 
derful and  almost  incredible. 

"I  was  lieutenant  colonel  of  my  regiment  and  we  had  been 
sent  up  in  Missouri  to  take  part  in  the  campaign  ,there.  Our 
colonel  had  been  wounded  the  day  before  and  I  was  in  command. 
Early  one  morning  I  received  an  order  to  advance  my  regiment, 
drive  off  a  small  detachment  of  the  enemy  from  a  woods  on  the 
opposite  side  of  a  big  field  and  hold  the  position  until  more  troops 
could  be  sent  to  me.  It  was  supposed  that  the  enemy  had  only  a 
small  force  in  the  woods,  so  you  can  judge  of  my  surprise  when 
as  we  reached  a  point  about  half  way  across  the  field  the  enemy 
opened  on  us  at  easy  range  with  a  withering  rifle  fire.  Instead 
of  a  small  force  we  found  ourselves  confronted  by  a  full  brigade 
that  had  been  moved  up  during  the  night.  There  was  an  old 
rock  fence,  about  two  feet  high  and  I  ordered  the  men  to  lie 
down  behind  it,  knowing  that  assistance  would  be  sent  us  so  soon 
as  our  desperate  situation  was  discovered  by  our  people.  For- 
tunately the  enemy  had  no  artillery  or  they  would  have  exter- 
minated us  right  there.  The  rifle  fire  was  fierce  and  one  had 
only  to  raise  a  finger  above  the  stone  fence  to  have  it  shot  off. 
I  was  lying  there  expecting  relief  every  moment,  when  I  heard 
a  voice  behind  me  and,  looking  around,  I  saw  a  boy  about  16 
years  old,  seated  on  a  big  white  horse.  The  bullets  were  flying 


142^ TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

all  about  him,  but  he  seemed  to  have  a  charmed  life,  for  none 
of  them  struck  him. 

"'Why  don't  you  charge?'  he  called  out.  'Get  up  and  go  at 
them.' 

"The  question  and  command  were  so  absurd  that  nobody 
thought  of  paying  any  attention  to  him.  Then  the  climax  came. 

"  'If  your  officers  are  a  lot  of  cowards  I  will  lead  you,'  he 
said  and  spurring  his  horse  he  leaped  the  low  wall.  The  regi- 
ment rose  to  a  man  and  made  a  dash  forward.  The  next  mo- 
ment the  ground  was  strewn  with  dead  and  wounded,  I  being 
among  the  latter  with  my  thigh  shattered.  Human  blood  and 
bone  could  not  stand  against  that  wall  of  lead  and  the  regiment 
broke,  and  what  few  were  able  to  do  so  got  back  to  the  shelter 
of  the  fence.  The  boy  was  unhurt  and  rode  up  and  down  the 
line  trying  to  get  the  men  to  make  another  charge.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  conflicting  emotions  that  wrenched  my  soul  and 
body  at  that  time.  One  moment  I  prayed  that  the  young  fool 
would  get  his  head  shot  off  and  the  next  moment  I  was  so  afraid 
that  he  would  get  hurt  that  my  heart  almost  stood  still.  There 
must  have  been  thousands  of  bullets  fired  at  him,  yet  not  one 
touched  him  or  his  horse.  Seeing  that  his  efforts  to  move  the 
men  were  hopeless  the  young  fellow  waved  his  hat,  put  spurs 
to  his  horse  and  rode  away.  I  was  left  on  the  field  and  after- 
wards fell  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  and  when  I  came  out  of 
prison  I  could  never  learn  who  the  boyv  was  or  anything  about 
him." 

That  was  the  story  Judge  Duncan  told  me,  and  since  the  only 
hero  mentioned  was  an  unknown  and  foolish  boy,  your  readers 
may  be  wondering  where  Judge  Duncan's  heroism  comes  in. 
That  was  the  part  of  the  story  told  me  by  Judge  George  Goldth- 
waite,  who  was  the  judge's  confidential  friend  and  attorney,  after 
the  death  of  Judge  Duncan. 

Judge  Duncan  was  practicing  law  here  in  Houston  and  was 
apparently  starving  to  death  when  his  friends  interested  them- 
selves and  got  him  elected  city  recorder.  The  salary  was  not 
a  princely  one,  but  it  was  about  $1800  a  year,  and  the  judge's 
friends  expected  him  to  live  a  little  more  comfortably  than  he 
had  been  doing.  It  was  at  this  time  that  he  earned  the  name 
of  miser.  He  had  a  little  office  and  an  old  lounge.  He  made  this 
lounge  his  bed  and  took  his  meals  at  some  cheap  restaurant 
near  the  market.  He  made  no  explanations  to  any  one  and  all 
the  people  knew  was  that  he  was  too  close-fisted  to  spend  a  cent. 
Finally  he  die.d  and  after  his  death  Judge  Goldthwaite  told  me 
this  part  of  his  story: 

After  he  was  shot  down,  as  I  have  described,  the  Confederate 
army  fell  back,  and  the  judge,  having  had  his  leg  amputated, 
was  left  in  a  house  near  the  roadside;  with  a  lady  whose  hus- 
band was  away  in  the  Confederate  army.  This  lady  nursed  and 
cared  for  him,  although  the  commanding  general  in  Missouri  had 
issued  a  proclamation  announcing  that  anyone  who  harbored  a 
"rebel"  would  be  put  to  death. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 143 

While  Judge  Duncan  was  yet  unable  to  get  qjit  of  bed,  the 
lady's  husband  came  home  on  a  furlough  one  afternoon,  and  the 
same  night  the  house  was  surrounded  by  Federal  troops  and  the 
husband  was  captured.  He  would  have  been  simply  made  a 
prisoner  of  war  had  they  not  found  Judge  Duncan  there.  When 
they  discovered  that  the  people  had  been  harboring  a  "rebel," 
the  officer  held  a  drum-head  courtmartial  and  ordered  the  hus- 
band to  be  shot  at  daylight. 

Judge  Duncan  begged  them  to  shoot  him  instead,  but  they  re- 
fused and  the  next  morning  they  took  the  husband  out  and 
shot  him.  The  poor  woman  was  left  a  widow  'with  two  little 
children. 

Judge  Goldthwaite  told  me  that  Judge  Duncan  had  deprived 
himself  of  everything  except  the  actual  necessities  of  life,  to 
send  money  to  that  woman.  Being  a  cripple,  past  middle  life 
and  extremely  poor,  it  was  uphill  work,  but  he  faced  it  manfully 
and  at  the  time  of  his  death,  he  had  succeeded  in  giving  the  two 
children  a  fair  education  and  had  kept  the  lady  from  actual  want, 
at  least. 

When  I  heard  that  story  I  felt  like  tearing  my  hair  and  kicking 
myself  for  ever  having  even  thought  that  the  judge  was  a  miser. 
He  was  a  noble  man,  and  I  and  all  others  who  had  laughed  at 
him  were  unworthy  to  unloose  his  shoe.  Had  the  judge  ever  told 
his  story  it  would  have  been  different,  for  then  it  might  have 
seemed  that  he  was  asking  sympathy  or  trying  to  get  praise  for 
his  act.  He  did  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  went  through  life  quiet- 
ly and  silently,  performing  the  great  duty  he  felt  rested  on  him. 
Now  by  the  side  of  this  man,  place  your  wireless  operator  calling 
for  help  or  your  fool  engineer  staying  on  his  engine  because  he 
had  lost  his  head  and  was  too  scared  to  jump — these  so-called 
heroes,  and  note  the  difference.  Once  or  twice  I  have  thought  of 
writing  this  story  for  the  Confederate  Veteran,  but  I  am  glad  now 
that  I  did  not  do  so,  for  it  is  much  better  to  tell  it  through  the 
columns  of  The  Chronicle,  where  it  will  be  seen  and  read  by 
hundreds  who  thought  they  knew  Judge  Duncan,  but  who  will 
find  that  they  did  not,  and  like  me  they  will  want  to  breathe  a 
prayer  for  the  rest  of  his  soul,  now  that  it  is  too  late  to  do  any- 
thing else. 

*  *  * 

CAPTAIN   CHAS.   BICKLEY. 

ONE  reads  a  great  deal  in  newspaper  circles  about  "Bohe- 
mians," but  the  fact  remains  that  one  seldom  comes  in 
contact  with  a  genuine  one.     In  all  my  experience  I  have 
never  met  but  one,  though  I  have  met  several  of  the  spurious 
article,  fellows  who  were  simply  more  or  less  refined  tramps  and 
bums,  and  who  were  glad  to  be  called  Bohemians  because  it  gave 
a  bit  of  respectability  and  gloss  to  their  otherwise  dissolute  be- 
havior.    There  are  tramp  newspaper  men  just  as  there  are  tramp 
printers  and  telegraph  operators,  but  there  are  few  genuine  Bo- 
hemians.   The  race,  or  whatever  they  may  be  called,  died  out 


144 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

years  ago.  As  I  have  already  said,  I  have  never  met  but  one, 
but  he  was  a  good  one  all  right,  and  all  the  old-timers  will  recall 
him  with  pleasure.  I  refer  to  Captain  Charles  Bickley.  He  was 
a  comparatively  young  man  when  he  first  appeared  on  the  scene 
in  Houston.  Of  all  the  devil-may-care,  heedless  and  care-free 
fellows  on  earth  he  was  the  greatest.  He  lived,  not  for  the  day, 
but  for  the  immediate  present  and  gave  no  thought  to  the  hour 
that  was  sixty  minutes  ahead.  He  was  a  brilliant  writer,  drunk 
or  sober;  a  fine  talker,  and,  what  may  sound  strange,  a  highly 
honorable  man. 

He  wrote  poetry  and  drank  whiskey,  wrote  plays,  short  stories, 
and  drank  more  whiskey.  He  could  always  get  a  job  when  sober 
and  he  could  hold  it  as  long  as  he  could  manage  to  hold  his 
pencil,  for  he  gave  rather  more  than  value  received,  for  his 
writings  were  first  class  and  editors  were  glad  to  have  him  with 
them.  He  would  hold  a  job  for  a  time  in  Houston,  get  drunk,  get 
fired  and  move  on  to  Galveston  or  San  Antonio,  go  through  the 
same  performance  there  and  then  show  up  in  Houston  again. 
He  got  passes  over  the  railroads  whenever  and  wherever  he 
wanted  them  and  trusFed  to  luck  for  drinks  on  the  way.  His 
title  of  captain  was  genuine,  for  he  had  actually  been  a  captain 
in  the  Confederate  army.  When  the  war  ended  he  took  a  trip 
abroad,  though  he  did  it  without  money  and  simply  on  cheek. 
He  came  to  Houston  about  1867  and  secured  a  position  on  the 
Telegraph.  He  at  once  became  the  best  known  man  in  town 
and  was  popular  with  everybody.  He  was  stage  struck,  of 
course,  for  one  never  finds  a  true  Bohemian  who  is  not,  and  he 
wrote  several  plays  which  were  produced  by  amateurs  and  pro- 
fessionals. One  of  his  plays  made  quite  a  hit,  locally.  It  was 
somewhat  on  the  order  of  the  "Chanticleer"  and  was  written  at 
the  time  the  old  market  house  was  being  pulled  down.  The  place 
was  overrun  by  big  rats  who  had  possession  of  the  building  for 
generations  of  rats.  The  captain  had  these  rats  as  his  char- 
acters and  made  them  review  the  history  of  the  old  building 
and  of  all  the  doings  of  the  early  Houstonians  who  had  passed 
through  it. 

It  was  a  historical  review  of  Houston  from  a  rat's  point  of 
view.  The  captain  took  a  leading  part  and  acquitted  himself  so 
well  that  he  would  have  gone  off  with  the  first  strolling  com- 
pany that  passed  through  Houston  and  become  a  professional, 
if  any  of  the  managers  would  have  taken  him. 

The  captain  revolved  between  the  desks  of  the  local  papers 
and  those  of  other  Texas  cities  for  several  years  and  then  dis- 
appeared and  no  one  knew  what  had  become  of  him  until  an 
announcement  of  his  sudden  deajih  appeared  in  one  of  the  New 
Orleans  papers. 

In  those  days  there  were  no  managing  editors  to  blue-pencil 
things,  but  the  local  editor,  as  he  was  called,  wrote  what  he 
choose  to  write  and  stood  all  the  consequences.  When  an  objec- 
tionable article  appeared  the  aggrieved  one  never  thought  of 
going  after  the  editor  of  the  paper,  but  went  direct  after  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 145 

local  editor.  Bickley  rarely  wrote  anything  that  got  him  in 
trouble,  but  occasionally  he  would  do  so.  On  one  occasion  he 
wrote  a  local  item  that  reflected  rather  severely  on  a  well  known 
gambling  saloon.  The  proprietor  took  his  medicine  and  kept 
his  mouth  shut,  but  one  of  his  dealers  got  drunk  and  the  more 
he  thought  of  it  the  madder  he  got.  Finally  about  dark  he  was 
on  the  warpath  good  and  strong  and  taking  his  gun  he  started 
out  to  destroy  Bickley.  Some  one  told  him  that  Bickley  was  in 
Gregory's  saloon  and  the  fellow  started  down  there  after  him. 
He  had  his  pistol  in  his  hand  and  went  down  Main  Street  knock- 
ing people  right  and  left  in  his  haste  to  get  at  his  victim.  Sure 
enough,  Bickley  was  there  and  he  was  ripe,  too,  for  he  was  sing- 
ing, and  that  was  a  good  way  to  let  people  know  his  condition. 
Unfortunately  for  the  gambler's  plans,  just  as  he  made  a  rush 
through  the  latticed  doors  to  get  at  Bickley  he  collided  with 
Big  Bill  Williams,  who  was  as  large  and  almost  as  strong  as 
John  Sullivan.  Instead  of 'making  an  apology,  the  gambler 
swore  at  Bill  and  tried  to  pass  him. 

Bill  was  feeling  pretty  good  himself  and  the  next  instant  he 
swung  onto  the  gambler's  left  jaw  and  curled  him  up  on  the  side- 
walk. Bill  never  said  a  word.  He  walked  out  to  where  the 
gambler  was  lying,  kicked  his  pistol  out  in  the  street,  and 
walked  up  the  sidewalk,  just  as  though  nothing  out  of  the  or- 
dinary had  occurred.  There  was  a  dead  silence  and  the  cap- 
tain's voice  could  be  heard  as  he  continued  his  song: 

"I  kissed  her  in  the  kitchen, 

I  kissed  her  in  the  hall, 
Good  morning,  ladies, 

I've  come  to  kiss  you  all." 

One  could  always  tell  the  exact  condition  of  the  captain  when 
they  heard  him  singing  that  favorite  song  of  his. 

About  the  funniest  scene  I  ever  witnessed  was  seeing  the  cap- 
tain, an  eminent  lawyer  and  a  leading  doctor  all  drunk  in  the 
back  room  of  a  barroom.  Each  was  singing  his  own  song  and 
paying  not  the  least  bit  of  attention  to  the  other  two.  The  doc- 
tor was  singing,  in  a  low,  crooning  tone: 

"How  in  hell  did  that  gal  know 
That  I  took  sugar  in  my  coffee-o?" 

The  judge  was  singing  at  the  top  of  his  voice  in  a  growling 
bass: 

"The  ship  she  lay  four  miles  from  shore, 
"The  ship  she  lay  four  miles  from  shore, 
And  there  came  on  board  a  gay  buccaneer,"  etc. 

While  the  captain  was  singing  the  classic  referred  to  above, 


14_6 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

as  the  negro  porter  expressed  it,  "they  shoe  was  enjoyin'  their- 
selves." 

Now  Captain  Bickley  would  last  on  a  modern  newspaper  about 
half  a  minute,  but  in  those  days  he  was  just  looked  upon  as 
quite  the  thing,  just  so  long  as  he  could  keep  sober  enough  to 
write  copy. 

*  *  * 

JIMMY   DAW. 

JIMMY  DAW  has  been  dead  and  buried  for  forty  years,  but, 
if  I  were  a  Spiritualist,  I  would  swear  that  he  has  been 
around  me  for  the  last  three  nights.  I  have  not  thought 
of  him  for  about  forty  years  and  yet  he  was  not  a  man  to  be 
soon  or  easily  forgotten.  Two  or  three  nights  ago  I  woke  up 
thinking  of  Jimmy  and  he  has  been  with  me  ever  since.  Perhaps 
he  has  gotten  hold  of  a  Chronicle  and  has  seen  where  I  have 
been  writing  about  some  of  the  old  boys  and  wants  to  come  in 
for  his  share.  Anyway,  I  am  going  to  pretend  that  I  believe 
that  and  gratify  him.  However,  he  is  entitled  to  a  place  in  The 
Chronicle  on  his  merits,  as  Captain  William  Christian,  Mr.  A. 
B.  Nibbs,  Mr.  I.  C.  Lord,  Henry  Thompson,  Colonel  Phil  Fall  or 
any  of  the  real  old-timers  will  bear  witness. 

When  Mr.  William  R.  Baker  was  county  clerk,  or  something 
of  that  sort,  in  the  very  early  50's,  Jimmy  was  his  chief  clerk 
and  right-hand  bower.  He  was  devoted  to  Mr.  Baker  and  thought 
there  was  no  man  on  earth  like  him.  He  was  a  man  of  some 
education,  good  manners,  and,  while  he  knew  nothing  of  "sona- 
tas," "movements,"  "positions"  and  all  those  kind  of  things 
violinists  love  to  talk  about,  he  was  quite  an  accomplished 
fiddler  and  made  delightful  music.  I  remember  him  first  on 
account  of  his  fiddle  and  next,  in  after  years,  by  the  strange 
philosophy  he  developed  and  the  strange  theories  he  fathered. 
He  was  always  a  bit  of  a  character  and  in  his  old  age  he  de- 
veloped into  a  most  pronounced  and  highly  entertaining  one. 
He  lived  out  near  the  old  graveyard,  not  far  from  hangman's 
grove,  and  I  used  to  go  out  there  to  hear  him  talk.  Mr.  Baker 
took  care  of  him  in  his  old  age,  so  he  was  quite  comfortable 
and  had  nothing  else  to  do  but  think  and  talk.  One  of  his  pet 
theories  was  that  the  world  had  been  ruined  by  education. 

"It  makes  me  mad  to  hear  the  preachers  talking  about  hell," 
he  said  one  day.  "There  ain't  no  hell.  It's  all  education;  that's, 
what  it  is.  You  take  the  lowest  form  of  life,  the  jellyfish  or 
the  earthworms.  They  don't  know  anything;  they  float  or  squirm 
around,  picking  up  what  they  want  to  eat  as  they  go.  They 
don't  know  anything,  they  don't  have  to  work  or  do  anything 
but  eat,  sleep  and  enjoy  themselves.  That's  heaven.  Now,  come 
a  little  higher — to  the  birds  and  small  animals.  They  know 
something  and  they  have  to  pay  for  it,  too,  for  they  have  to 
rustle  for  a  living.  That's  sorter  between  heaven  and  purga- 
tory. Next,  we  come  to  horses,  cows  and  animals  that  have  got 
more  sense,  and  they  have  to  work  and  toil  for  everything  they 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 147 

get.  The  smarter  they  are  the  more  is  expected  of  them.  That's 
purgatory.  Now,  come  to  man.  He  knows  everything,  and  the 
result  is  that  he  is  in  hell  all  the  time.  The  more  a  fellow  knows 
the  worse  off  he  is  and  the  more  you  educate  him  the  more  hell 
you  fix  up  for  him." 

All  my  life  I  have  been  fond  of  "characters,"  inordinately  so, 
I  fear,  and  in  Jimmy  Daw  I  found  a  most  entertaining  one.  He 
had  a  great  contempt  for  history  and  historians  and  swore  that 
all  the  stories  about  Napoleon  and  Julius  Caesar  and  George 
Washington  had  been  fixed  up  by  sharp  Yankees  to  work  off  on 
the  people,  just  as  the  wooden  nutmegs  were  fixed  up. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "it  stands  to  reason  that  those  things  are 
fixed  up.  Even  a  hundred  years  is  a  long  time  for  a  man  to 
remember  anything.  I  know  that  for  a  fact,  for  once  when 
I  was  a  boy  I  walked  five  miles  to  see  a  man  who  was  a  hundred 
years  old  and  all  he  could  tell  me  was  something  about  a  bear 
hunt.  He  didn't  know  anything  about  George  Washington  and 
if  George  Washington  had  have  been  a  sure  enough  man  and 
had  done  all  the  big  things  history  says  he  did,  don't  you  know 
this  old  fellow  would  have  remembered  all  about  George  instead 
of  about  that  bear?" 

Jimmy  had  some  original  ideas  about  astronomy  and  held  with 
the  ancients  that  the  earth  is  the  center  of  the  universe  and 
that  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  revolve  around  it.  He  admitted 
that  the  earth  is  round,  but  claimed  that  it  is  round  like  a  bowl, 
and  that  it  is  surrounded  with  a  wall  of  ice  to  retain  the  water 
and  that  the  land  floats  about  the  water. 

When  I  asked  him  about  ships  sailing  around  the  earth  he 
said  all  such  tales  were  lies  hatched  up  by  historians;  that  if 
anybody  claimed  to  have  gone  around  the  earth  they  lied,  for 
they  had  simply  gone  off  somewhere  and  hidden  out  and  then 
come  back  with  their  story. 

"If  stands  to  reason,"  he  would  say,  "that  if  anybody  got  off 
on  the  far  edge  of  the  ice,  they  would  have  slipped  off  into 
nowhere  and  never  come  back  again." 

I  think  it  was  in  1872  that  I  saw  him  last;  then  I  was  out 
of  town  for  several  weeks,  and  when  I  returned  I  learned  that 
he  had  died  during  my  absence.  He  was  a  queer  character.  As 
faithful  and  true  as  any  living  being  could  be.  He  never  in 
his  whole  life  injured  any  one  and,  though  the  peculiarities 
I  have  mentioned  developed  late  in  life,  even  as  a  comparatively 
young  man  he  made  few  friends.  He  lived  to  himself,  and  his 
violin  seemed  to  afford  him  all  the  company  he  desired.  Mr. 
Baker  and  I  went  to  see  him  often,  but  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  ever  met  any  one  else  there. 

*  *  * 

IN   THE  GRAND  OLD  TIMES. 

ONE  gets  in  the  habit  of  speaking  of  "the  gool  old  times," 
without  ever  stopping  to  think  what  those  "good  old 
times"  really  were.    Distance  lends   enchantment,  and 
only  the  pleasures  are  remembered,  while  the  discomforts  are 


148 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

either  forgotten  or  ignored.  Things  today  are  so  vastly  better 
and  superior  in  every  way  that  instead  of  pining  for  the  good 
old  times  one  actually  wonders  how  one  could  have  put  up  with 
all  the  discomforts  and  inconveniences  of  former  days. 

I  remember  when  the  first  street  car  service  was  established 
in  Houston  and  what  a  great  thing  it  was  considered.  There 
was  one  little  car  drawn  by  a  diminutive  mule,  that  had  a  sleigh 
bell  attached  to  its  necfc  to  let  people  know  he  was  coming. 
There  were  no  conductors,  the  passenger  going  up  to  the  front 
of  the  car  and  depositing  his  fare  in  a  box,  under  the  eye  of  the 
driver.  No  one  could  get  into  that  box  except  the  man  at  head- 
quarters, for  it  was  locked  with  a  padlock  and  only  he  had  a 
key.  At  fixed  hours  he  would  take  out  the  fares  deposited  in 
the  box  and  then  lock  it 'again.  The  service  was  just  barely 
better  than  walking,  though  frequently  not  so  expeditious,  for 
from  time  to  time  the  car  would  jump  the  track  and  it  would 
take  some  time  for  the  driver  and  passengers  to  get  it  on  again. 
When  a  wreck  occurred  it  was  expected  that  every  male  passen- 
ger would  get  out  and  work  like  a  section  hand  to  help  matters 
along.  The  cars  were  so  small  and  so  light  that  the  driver  felt 
safe  against  long  delays  if  he  had  two  or  three  men  among  his 
passengers. 

Now,  about  the  time  those  street  cars  made  their  appearance 
in  Houston  there  was  a  kind  of  anti-corporation  feeling  all  over 
the  state  that  caused  the  street  car  drivers  and  the  conduct- 
ors of  the  big  railroads  to  make  predatory  war  on  the  various 
companies  they  served.  "Knocking  down"  became  one  of  the 
fine  arts  and  the  company  that  got  a  fair  proportion  of  its 
passenger  earnings  at  the  end  of  the  year  considered  itself  for- 
tunate. This  is  no  joke;  it  is  an  actual  fact,  and  the  cause  for 
it  was  a  mistake  that  the  railroads  made  in  assuming  that 
every  one  of  its  conductors  was  a  thief  and  setting  spies  to 
watch  them.  The  conductors  resented  that  action  on  the  part 
of  the  railroads  and  went  in  to  get  the  benefits  of  being  dis- 
honest since  the  roads  assumed  them  to  be  so.  Honest  men 
were  classed  as  rascals  by  the  roads  and  they  became  rascals. 

There  were  no  gates,  ticket  punching  or  things  of  that  kind 
in  those  days.  If  there  was  the  least  trouble  about  the  matter 
the  passenger  did  not  go  to  the  ticket  office  at  all,  but  got  on 
the  train  and  paid  the  conductor.  But  the  whole  thing  came 
to  an  abrupt  termination  through  the  mistake  of  a  green  hand 
who  was  put  on  a  run  in  place  of  a  regular  conductor  who  had 
been  taken  suddenly  ill  just  as  his  train  was  about  to  pull  out. 
That  was  on  the  northern  division  of  one  of  the  big  roads  running 
out  of  Houston.  The  conductors  on  that  division  had  "gotten 
together"  and  agreed  on  what  proportion  of  the  fares  they  would 
give  to  the  railroad  when  their  run  was  over  and  they  made 
their  report. 

When  the  regular  conductor  was  taken  sick  he  did  not  have 
time  to  instruct  his  subordinate,  who  was  a  baggagemaster 
from  the  south  division,  or  to  warn  others,  so  the  baggagemaster 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 149 

went  through  the  whole  run  without  any  of  the  other  conductors 
knowing  he  was  there.  He  went  to  the  division  superintendent's 
office,  made  his  report  and  turned  over  about  $600  in  cash. 
Now,  according  to  the  rules  adopted  by  the  regular  conductors, 
the  railroad  should  have  received  only  about  $150  for  that  run. 
The  superintendent  asked  many  questions  and  when  he  found 
that  there  had  been  no  convention,  picnic  or  anything  of  that 
kind  and  that  it  was  just  an  ordinary  run,  he  reported  the  mat- 
ter to  the  president  of  the  road  by  wire,  and  within  an  hour 
or  two  every  conductor  on  that  division  was  out  of  a  job. 

Of  course,  the  street  car  drivers  had  no  picnic  like  the  big 
conductors  did,  but  they  managed  to  hold  up  their  end  of  the 
line  pretty  well.  In  place  of  nickels,  the  street  car  companies 
issued  tickets,  and  these  passed  everywhere  just  as  actual 
nickels  or  five-cent  pieces  would  do.  Once  I  was  on  the  old 
fair  grouLds  car  when  several  railroad  men  were  in  the  cai 
One  of  them,  a  long-legged  fellow  they  called  Judge,  went  forward 
and  was  soon  busily  engaged  in  a  conversation  with  the  driver. 
One  of  the  others  said:  "I'll  bet  Judge  is  telling  that  fellow  to 
rob  that  box."  We  slipped  up  closer  where  we  could  hear  the 
conversation  and  sure  enough  he  was.  Here  was  what  he  was 
saying:  "Catch  a  young  grasshopper  and  tie  a  thread  round  his 
wings,  leaving  the  legs  free.  Then  lower  him  carefully  into  the 
box.  The  minute  he  touches  bottom  he  will  grab  onto  everything 
in  his  reach  and  you  can't  shake  him  loose.  Then  all  you  got 
to  do  is  to  haul  him  out,  clean  his  feet  and  drop  him  back  again. 
You  can  empty  that  box  of  every  ticket  in  it  in  a  few  minutes." 

I  never  had  a  chance  to  find  out  if  the  driver  followed  his 
advice  or  not,  but  I  suspect  he  did,  for  I  noticed  he  kept  a  good 
lookout  on  each  side  of  his  track  after  that,  evidently  fearing 
that  some  fool  grasshopper  might  come  out  of  the.  grass  and 
attempt  to  cross  the  track. 

Now  when  I  began  to  write  this  I  intended  to  point  out  that 
in  the  "good  old  times,"  it  took  as  long  to  go  from  Preston 
Avenue  to  the  fair  grounds  and  return,  on  the  old  mule  car, 
as  it  takes  to  go  from  here  to  Galveston  on  the  Interurban. 
There  were  several  other  points  I  wanted  to  make,  all  going  to 
show  what  humbugs  the  "good  old  times"  are,  but  I  got  switched 
off  on  the  north  end  conductors  and  the  Judge's  grasshopper  and 
have  used  up  all  my  space  talking  about  them,  so  I  will  have  to 
postpone  my  comparisons  until  some  other  time. 


YELLOW    FEVER    EPIDEMIC. 

THE    present    agitation    over    meningitis    reminds    me    of 
some  of  the  really  exciting  times  they  used  to  have  in 
Houston  when  that  great  enemy,  yellow  fever,  made  an 
invasion.    For  the  first  few  days  pandemonium  broke  loose,  and 
then  people  settled  down  and  waited,  in  grim  desperation,  for 


150 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

the  inevitable,  knowing  full  well  that  only  a  complete  exhaustion 
of  material  or  a  frost  could  stop  the  ravages  of  the  fever. 

Of  course  no  one  knew  anything  about  the  mosquito  causing 
the  disease,  and  some  of  the  methods  used  to  kill  the  "miasma" 
that  was  regarded  as  its  cause,  were  novel.  For  instance,  every 
exposed  place  was  inundated  with  lime  and,  at  night,  huge  bon- 
fires, composed  largely  of  tar  barrels  and  tar,  were  burned  at 
the  street  crossings.  I  remember,  when  I  was  a  child,  seeing 
those  bonfires,  which  were  ordered  by  the  city  authorities.  Now, 
no  doubt,  both  the  lime  and  the  fires  did  good,  the  first  pre- 
venting the  breeding  of  mosquitoes  and  the  second  by  driving 
them  away  with  the  smoke. 

The  present  generation  can  not  appreciate  the  horrors  of  a 
yellow  fever  epidemic.  One  case  would  appear,  then  two  or 
three,  and  then  people  would  be  taken  down  by  the  hundreds. 
In  a  week  the  death,  roll  would  begin  to  swell  and  everything 
like  business,  except  at  the  drug  stores,  would  be  suspended. 
Those  who  had  had  the  fever  became  nurses  and  looked  after 
the  sick.  One  good  thing  was  that  yellow  fever  requires  nursing 
rather  than  medicine,  and  as  there  were  numerous  nurses  and 
few  doctors,  the  patients  generally  got  along  pretty  well.  The 
doctors  were  so  overrun  that  when  they  found  a  patient  in  the 
hands  of  a  competent  nurse,  that  they  knew  to  be  such,  they 
turned  the  case  over  to  the  nurse  and  went  elsewhere,  where 
conditions  were  not  so  favorable. 

I  will  never  forget  the  time  I  had  the  fever,  and  as  my  case 
will  give  a  fair  idea  of  how  the  disease  was  treated,  I  give  a 
short  description  of  my  experience.  It  was  in  1858,  on  a  Sun- 
day morning,  that  I  was  stricken.  I  got  up  that  morning  feeling 
as  well  as  ever,  dressed,  ate  a  good  breakfast  and  started  to 
Sunday  school.  On  the  way  to  Sunday  school  I  was  stricken 
suddenly  with  a  terrible  pain  in  the  back  of  my  head  and  then 
my  head  began  to  ache  so  terribly  that  I  could  scarcely  see. 
It  was  with  great  difficulty  that  I  managed  to  walk  the  two  or 
three  blocks  home,  and  when  I  got  there  I  was  in  such  pain 
that  I  could  scarcely  talk.  My  mother  knew  at  once  what 
was  the  matter,  for  she  had  had  much  experience  with  the  fever. 
I  was  hurried  to  bed  and  given  a  hot  mustard  foot-bath,  and 
then  blankets  were  piled  over  me.  They  gave  me  a  dose  of 
castor  oil.  That  is  one  feature  of  the  treatment  I  shall  never 
forget,  for  after  I  had  taken  it  they  found  I  had  eaten  a  large 
breakfast  and  they  gave  me  a  mustard  emetic,  made  me  throw 
it  all  up  and  then  repeated  the  dose  of  oil. 

The  weather  was  warm,  but  they  kept  the  bedclothes  piled 
on  me  and  the  only  thing  they  allowed  me  to  drink  was  orange 
leaf  tea.  There  I  lay  and  sweated  and  famished  for  water  for 
three  days,  or  until  the  fever  left  me.  It  was  tough  treatment, 
but  it  did  the  work,  and  wherever  people  got  the  same  treat- 
ment and  nursing  that  I  got  they  got  well. 
There  was  no  ice  in  those  days,  and  if  there  had  been  any, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 151 

the  man  who  tried  to  give  a  yellow  fever  patient  any  would 
have  been  looked  upon  as  a  would-be  assassin. 

Where  patients  could  not  get  proper  nursing,  they  died  like 
sheep,  and  they  died  in  a  hurry,  too.  I  remember  the  great  epi- 
demic of  1867.  I  had  come  home  from  college  during  the  sum- 
mer vacation,  and  just  about  the  time  I  was  getting  ready  to  go 
back  the  yellow  fever  broke  out  and  I  could  not  go  because 
Houston  was  quarantined  again  at  once  and  travel  ceased. 

Having  had  the  fever  I  was  safe  in  going  everywhere  and  saw 
a  great  deal  of  the  fever.  I  remember  four  young  men  who  had 
just  come  to  Houston  from  the  North.  They  were  not  the  least 
afraid  of  the  disease  and  laughed  at  their  friends  who  warned 
them  against  exposing  themselves  to  the  night  air.  I  remember 
ex-Mayor  I.  C.  Lord  telling  them  of  the  danger  and  warning 
them  to  be  careful.  They  had  rooms  in  the  Kennedy  building 
on  market  square  and  were  over  at  the  market  at  the  time  the 
conversation  took  place.  That  night  the  oldest  one  was  stricken, 
the  next  morning  the  others  were  down  and  four  days  after  old 
man  Pannel  buried  all  four  of  them. 

There  used  to  be  all  kinds  of  queer  stories  floating  about, 
saying  this  and  that  one  died,  come  to  and  then  died  again.  A 
story  was  current  to  the  effect  that  a  horse  drawing  a  dray- 
load  of  coffins  to  the  graveyard  became  frightened,  ran  away 
and  spilt  part  of  the  load.  It  was  said  that  one  of  the  coffins 
burst  open  and  that  its  occupant,  a  negro  woman,  got  up  and 
made  a  bee-line  for  home,  got  in  bed  again,  got  well  and  "lived 
happily  for  years  after."  Now,  I  don't  vouch  for  the  truth  of  any 
of  these  stories,  but  some  funny  things  happened.  Dr.  Massie 
died  and  was  laid  out.  All  preparations  were  completed  for  bury- 
ing him,  when  he  came  to  life.  He  was  placed  in  bed  again  and 
heroic  efforts  were  made  to  save  him,  but  all  in  vain.  He  lived 
24  hours  and  died,  the  last  time  for  good. 

It  was  during  that  epidemic  that  one  of  the  funniest  panics  on 
record  took  place.  As  all  grown  folk,  who  were  able  to  nurse, 
were  engaged  in  that  way  it  became  necessary  for  the  boys  to 
sit  up  with  the  dead,  when  the  death  occurred  too  late  in  the 
afternoon  to  permit  of  burial  at  once. 

The  editor  of  one  of  the  leading  newspapers  in  Houston  died 
late  in  the  afternoon  and  Dick  Fuller  and  Fish  Allen  volunteered 
to  sit  up  with  the  body.  The  editor  was  living  in  the  Ennis  resi- 
dence on  Court  House  square  at  the  time  of  his  death  and  the 
body,  after  being  placed  in  a  coffin,  was  placed  in  the  back  par- 
lor on  the  ground  floor.  Dick  and  Fish  began  their  lonely  watch. 
All  went  well  so  long  as  they  could  hear  people  moving  either 
in  the  house  or  in  the  street.  Finally  about  midnight  every- 
thing became  quiet  and  they  began  to  feel  depressed.  Like  boys, 
they  endeavored  to  cheer  things  up  by  talking  about  ghosts  and 
such  cheerful  subjects.  Dick  asked  Fish  what  he  would  do  if 
the  dead  man  should  rise  up  in  his  coffin.  Before  Fish  could 
reply  there  was  a  terrible  shriek  near  the  open  window  and  with 
a  great  bound  an  immense  black  cat  leaped  on  the  window  sill 


152  TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

and  with  arched  back  and  bristling  tail,  let  out  another  blood- 
curdling cry.  Then,  without  warning  the  single  lamp  in  the 
room  went  out,  leaving  them  in  darkness.  Neither  Dick  nor 
Fish  could  ever  tell  how  they  got  out  of  the  place,  but  when 
the  neighbors  arrived  and  went  in  to  find  out  what  had  happened, 
they  found  the  dead  man  on  the  floor,  the  coffin  overturned  and 
most  of  the  furniture  that  stood  between  the  window  and  door 
totally  wrecked.  Nothing  could  pursuade  those  two  boys  to 
go  back  in  the  house,  so  substitute  watchers  had  to  be  found. 
The  boys  worked  themselves  up  to  the  highest  point  of  nervous- 
ness and  excitement,  talking  about  ghosts  and  dead  men  and 
that  cat  managed  to  put  in  an  appearance  just  at  the  psychologi- 
cal moment.  I  don't  blame  the  boys  for  not  going  back,  neither 
do  I  blame  them  for  coming  out. 

I  don't  care  whether  people  believe  in  ghosts  or  not,  I  know 
everybody  is  afraid  of  them  just  as  I  am. 


FOUGHT  WITH  FIREWORKS. 

I     HAVE  never  seen  it  mentioned  in  any  history  of  Texas, 
though  I  remember  that  a  long  account  of  it  was  published 
in  the  Houston  Telegraph  of  December  25,  1871;  nor  is  it 
generally  known  today  that  one  of  the  most  remarkable  battles 
of  modern  times  was  fought  on  Preston  Avenue  and  on  Main 
Street  for  several  blocks  on  Christmas  Eve,  1871. 

The  great  combat  was  the  result  of  a  joke.  It  started  in  a 
small  way,  but  soon  grew  to  great  proportions,  involving  prom- 
inent railroad  men,  professional  men,  staid  bankers,  merchants 
and  a  good  sprinkling  of  every  day  kind  of  people.  An  account 
of  that  great  battle  is  worth  giving,  and  as  I  witnessed  the  firing 
of  the  first  shot  and  actually  dodged  the  first  ball  I  feel  that  I 
am  competent  to  give  it. 

Dr.  Louis  A.  Bryan  and  I  came  out  of  Conlief's  drug  store,  on 
Preston  Avenue,  about  9  o'clock  that  night.  As  we  stepped  on 
the  sidewalk,  Captain  J.  Waldo,  who  was  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  street,  shooting  off  a  big  roman  candle,  lowered  it  and 
sent  a  great,  green  ball  directly  at  us,  following  it  with  others 
in  rapid  succession.  We  dodged  into  a  nearby  store,  which 
happened  to  have  a  good  supply  of  fireworks  on  hand  and  each 
of  us  got  the  largest  roman  candle  we  could  find.  Out  we  went 
and  opened  fire  on  Waldo.  Andrew  Hutcherson  came  to  Waldo's 
assistance,  then  Sandy  Ewing  joined  Dr.  Bryan  and  me.  Mr. 
Fred  Stanley  joined  Waldo  and  Andrew.  It  kept  up  that  way 
until  within  15  minutes  there  were  full  100  men  shooting  at 
each  other  with  roman  candles.  At  first  they  kept  apart  and 
fired  from  across  the  street,  but  getting  excited  they  closed  up, 
made  charges  and  almost  reduced  it  to  a  hand  to  hand  conflict. 

By  common  consent  Dr.  Bryan  was  chosen  as  leader  of  one 
party  and  Captain  Waldo  was  chosen  as  leader  of  the  other. 
They  kept  boys  busy  bringing  up  ammunition  and  it  was  not  long 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 153 

before  they  had  bought  every  roman  candle  to  be  found  within 
blocks  of  the  battlefield.  Dr.  Bryan  and  I  were  wearing  stove- 
pipe hats,  and,  of  course,  we  received  marked  attention.  Our 
hats  were  something  wonderful  to  look  at  within  a  few  minutes 
after  the  fight  got  under  headway. 

Finally,  just  as  we  received  a  fresh  supply  of  ammunition, 
that  of  Waldo's  party  gave  out  and  the  fun  commenced  in 
earnest.  We  charged  them  and  they  fled  towards  Main  Street. 
It  was  intensely  funny  and  I  remember  seeing  Sandy  Ewing 
chasing  Mr.  W.  R.  Baker  up  fiie  middle  of  Main  Street,  shoot- 
ing him  in  the  back  at  almost  every  jump.  There  were  more 
hats  and  clothes  destroyed  that  night  than  on  any  other  occa- 
sion in  the  history  of  Houston.  Fortunately  there  were  no 
serious  casualties.  Several  of  the  combatants  on  each  side 
received  severe  burns,  and  many  lost  mustaches,  beards  and 
heads  of  hair,  but  no  eyes  were  put  out,  and  only  temporary  dis- 
figurement resulted. 

Now,  when  you  consider  that  nearly  every  man  engaged  in 
that  battle  was  a  leading  and  prominent  citizen,  that  nearly  all 
of  them  were  prominent  merchants,  bankers,  railroad  officials 
or  professional  men,  it  will  be  seen  what  a  remarkable  fight 
it  was.  Had  it  been  a  lot  of  boys  ft  would  have  been  quite 
natural,  but  it  was  nothing  of  the  kind.  It  was  a  spontaneous 
determination  on  the  part  of  a  lot  of  grown  men  to  be  boys 
again,  and  the  battle  was  the  result.  I  can  remember  only  a 
few,  but  the  mention  of  their  names  will  show  the  character  of 
the  crowd,  for  they  were  all  of  the  same  class.  There  was  Dr. 
Louis  A.  Bryan,  Captain  J.  Waldo,  Captain  A.  Faulkner,  Mr. 
Fred  Stanley,  right  hand  and  confidential  adviser  of  T.  W. 
House,  Sr.,  Sandy  Ewing,  Andrew  Hutcheson,  Judge  George 
Goldthwaite,  Dr.  Alva  Connell,  Dr.  James  Blake,  Charley  Gentry 
and  a  score  of  others  whose  names  escape  me. 

Just  imagine  the  general  officers  of  the  railroads,  the  leading 
merchants,  bankers,  doctors  and  lawyers  of  today  getting  up 
such  a  racket  as  that.  Why,  the  mere  idea  is  preposterous!  1 
was  talking  to  Dr.  George  McDonnald,  the  only  one  of  the  old 
crowd  left,  the  other  day,  and  he  remarked  that  the  people 
of  Houston  do  not  know  what  fun  is,  and  I  believe  he  is  right. 
I  don't  remember  whether  Dr.  McDonald  was  in  the  roman 
candle  battle  or  not,  but  if  he  was,  he  and  I  are  the  only  sur- 
vivors, for  all  those  I  have  named  have  crossed  over  the  river. 
That  is  the  one  sad  feature  about  recalling  the  happy  days  of 
the  past.  There  are  so  many  sad  thoughts  connected  with  the 
subjects  I  write  about. 

*  *  * 

HOW  THEY  BEAT  FARO. 

IF  CAPTAIN  JOHN  STEEL,  Jim  Martin,  Jack  Martin  or  any 
of  the  old  time  sports  could  come  back  to  life  and  see  their 
former   gambling   "palaces"   being   used  today   as   moving 
picture  places,  shoe  shops  and  for  other  unworthy  purposes  they 


154 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

sure  would  have  the  right  to  mourn  over  the  degeneracy  of  mod- 
ern Houston.  In  "the  good  old  days"  gambling  was  wide  open, 
and  while  enough  deference  was  paid  to  appearances  to  keep 
the  halls  on  the  second  floors  of  the  buildings,  everybody  knew 
what  was  going  on  and  access  was  very  easy  and  unobstructed. 

It  is  true  that  every  time  the  grand  jury  met  the  keepers  of 
the  places  were  indicted,  pleaded  guilty  and  paid  a  fixed  fine, 
which  was  looked  upon  as  a  kind  of  tax  and  therefore  was  con- 
sidered perfectly  proper,  even  by  the  proprietors  themselves. 
Occasionally  a  grand  jury  would  get  too  inquisitive  and  get 
after  a  bunch  of  the  players  and  then  there  was  sure  enough 
trouble.  I  remember  an  occasion  of  that  kind  when  a  number 
of  very  prominent  lawyers,  doctors  and  business  men  were 
indicted  for  indulging  in  poker.  Of  course  they  did  not  want 
to  appear  in  court  and  at  the  same  time  they  did  not  want  to 
pay  a  heavy  fine.  They  clubbed  together  and  employed  Colonel 
Manley  to  defend  them  and,  selecting  the  man  in  whose  room 
they  had  played,  they  placed  him  on  trial,  all  agreeing  to  abide 
by  the  decision  in  his  case.  I  forget  the  details  of  the  trial,  but 
I  remember  that  Colonel  Manley  won  the  case,  on  the  ground 
that  there  was  a  bed  in  the  room  and  that  a  bedroom  was  not  a 
public  place  in  the  meaning  of  the  law,  which  he  read. 

I  just  happened  to  think  of  that  case  and  jotted  it  down  here, 
for  I  did  not  intend  to  write  about  the  moral  or  legal  aspect 
of  gambling.  Perhaps  the  best  known  gambling  saloon  in  Hous- 
ton was  the  old  "Iron  Clad,"  so  named  because  its  second  story 
was  covered  with  sheet  iron,  which  was  above  Gregory's  saloon 
on  the  corner  of  Congress  and  Main,  where  Krupp  &  Tuffly's 
nice  store  now  is.  That  was  a  great  resort  and  everybody  who 
had  sporting  blood  knew  all  about  it.  Some  of  the  most  prom- 
inent gamblers  in  Houston  held  forth  there  from  time  to  time 
and  thousands  of  dollars  changed  hands  almost  daily  at  that 
place. 

There  was  a  game  of  some  kind  going  on  all  the  time  and*  the 
doors  were  never  closed  night  or  day.  Some  very  amusing 
things  took  place  there,  too.  One  night  there  was  a  big  crowd 
around  the  faro  table  and  a  big  game  was  in  progress  when 
two  men  came  up  the  stairsteps,  one  carrying  a  large  sack.  They 
were  perfect  strangers  and  no  one  Tmew  who  they  were.  They 
at  once  introduced  themselves  by  commanding  the  gentlemen 
present  to  hold  up  their  hands,  backing  their  command  with  two 
nasty  looking  six-shooters.  All  held  up  their  hands  and  while 
one  of  the  intruders  kept  the  gentlemen  covered  with  his  gun 
the  other  advanced  with  his  sack  and  put  the  entire  "bank  roll" 
in  it.  Then  he  paid  his  attention  to  the  guests  of  the  house, 
taking  all  their  money  and  jewelry.  It  was  a  clean  sweep  and 
when  they  got  through  there  was  not  the  price  of  a  glass  of 
beer  in  that  crowd.  Having  gotten  all  the  wealth  in  sight,  the 
robber  backed  out  of  the  room  and  went  downstairs,  leaving 
his  partner  to  keep  the  crowd  quiet.  When  he  was  safely  out 
with  his  sack  he  whistled  and  robber  No.  2  began  to  back  out 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  155 

of  the  room.  The  crowd  had  been  so  taken  by  surprise  that  not 
a  word  had  been  spoken.  As  the  robber  was  just  going  down 
the  steps  a  little  fellow  who  was  sitting  at  the  end  of  the  table 
said: 

"It's  a  good  thing  I  did  not  have  my  gun  with  me." 

The  retiring  robber  took  a  step  back  into  the  room  and,  cover- 
ing the  little  fellow  with  his  pistol,  asked  him  what  he  would 
have  done  if  he  had  had  his  gun. 

"Why,  I  would  have  lost  that,  too,  as  well  as  my  watch,"  was 
the  reply. 

Now,  the  strange  part  about  this  performance  was  the  fact 
that  neither  of  the  robbers  made  the  least  attempt  to  disguise 
himself.  No  one  had  ever  seen  either  of  them  before  nor  has 
anyone  ever  seen  either  of  them  since. 

They  simply  came,  conquered  and  disappeared.  Probably 
they  were  the  only  men  who  ever  beat  that  faro  game. 

Now  of  all  of  the  superstitious  people  on  earth,  gamblers  are 
the  worst.  Anything  strange  or  unusual  will  get  on  their  nerves 
and  unfit  them  for  any  and  everything.  One  night  I  saw  a 
splendid  illustration  of  this.  Dick  Fuller  and  I  were  going  fish- 
ing and  had  gotten  up  about  3  o'clock  to  make  an  early  start.  We 
were  near  Gregory's  corner  and  noticed  that  it  was  brilliantly 
lighted,  so  we  judged  that  there  was  a  good  game  going  on. 

"I'll  bet  I  can  break  that  game  up,"  said  Dick,  "and  I  will  not 
go  in  the  building  either." 

There  had  been  a  man  killed  near  there  a  day  or  two  before. 
Dick  told  me  to  hide  behind  the  corner  and  watch  him  break 
it  up.  Then  he  took  a  seat  on  a  big  dry  goods  box  near  the 
corner  and  commenced  pounding  it  with  his  heels,  at  the  same 
time  crying  out,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "Woah,  you  scoundrel!  Woah! 
you  scoundrel!"  Blang!  Blang!  he  would  hit  the  box  and  then 
utter  that  cry  of  distress.  In  a  moment  it  sounded  like  a  drove 
of  mules  coming  down  the  steps  and  a  whole  gang  of  anxious 
players  were  on  the  sidewalk  trying  to  see  what  the  trouble  was. 
They  rushed  up  to  Dick  and  asked  what  was  the  cause  of  all 
that  racket.  He  pretended  not  to  know  what  they  were  talking 
about  and  declared  he  had  been  sitting  there  for  some  time 
and  had  heard  nothing.  After  looking  around  carefully  they 
went  upstairs  again.  In  a  little  while  Dick  began  the  same  per- 
formance and  down  they  came  with  a  rush.  They  found  no  horse 
kicking  a  buggy  or  wagon  into  kindling  wood,  nor  could  they 
see  any  horse  at  all.  Dick  expressed  surprise  at  their  action 
and  declared  that  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard  any  horse  or 
anything  else  cutting  up  as.  described. 

They  hesitated  some  time  and  one  or  two  decided  not  to  go 
upstairs  again  and  in  a  few  minutes  all  came  down  and  went 
home,  no  doubt  convinced  that  they  had  had  an  experience  with 
a  ghost. 

Whenever  I  speak  of  gamblers  and  their  ways  I  think  of  my 
friend  "Frenchy."  He  was  a  gambler  right  and  was  never  guilty 
of  speaking  of  anything  in  the  past  tense  which,  as  everybody 


156 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

knows,  is  a  habit  with  most  gamblers.  One  night  I  was  talking 
to  Frank  La  Mott  about  that  robbery  in  the  "Iron  Clad." 
"Frenchy"  came  up  just  in  time  to  hear  me  say  "hold-up"  in  con- 
nection with  the  story.  He  concluded  that  we  were  talking 
about  that  time  the  gambling  saloon  was  dynamited  and  robbed 
here  in  Houston,  so  he  butted  in. 

"Hell,"  said  he,  "that  is  no  holdup.  That  is  a  bombshell.  I 
am  there.  I  am  playin'  bank.  There's  a  big  crowd  so  I  can't 
get  to  the  table.  .'Limpy'  George  is  in  front  of  me  and  I  have 
to  reach  over  him  to  get  my  money  down.  Just  as  I  get  my 
bet  placed  hell  breaks  loose  right  behind  me.  I  don't  know  what 
it  is  and  I  don't  stay  to  find  out.  I  breaks  for  the  street  and  I 
thinks  I'm  the  first  one  to  get  out,  but  when  I  hits  the  sidewalk 
I  see  'Limpy'  George  goin'  up  the  street,  20  yards  in  front  of  me, 
and  he  ain't  got  no  crutches,  either.  I  tell  you  that  bombshell 
shore  works  a  miracle  with  'Limpy's'  legs.  He  can't  walk  across 
the  room  without  crutches  before  it  goes  off,  but  here  he  is  down- 
stairs and  out  in  the  street  ahead  of  me  with  my  two  good  legs." 

If  any  one  will  read  that  description  over  carefully .  they  will 
know  "Frenchy"  as  well  as  I  do. 


BEST   FIGHTER    IN   THE   ARMY. 

THE  other  day  I  told  about  James  Longstreet,  the  famous 
mule   that   was  the   mascot   of  Hood's   Texas   Brigade. 
Soon  after  the  article  appeared  I  met  Captain  Mat  Ross, 
who  was  a  member  of  Company  H,  Fifth  Texas  Regiment,  of  that 
brigade  and  he  jumped  on  me  for  not  having  mentioned  another 
equally  famous   member  of  the  brigade,  another  James   Long- 
street,  too.    That  was  a  little  red  rooster,  the  pride  and  glory 
of  Company  H,  but  the  immediate  property  of  Mat  Ross  and 
Major  E.  G.  Goree,  now  a  resident  of  Huntsville. 

"That  rooster  was  the  greatest  little  fighter  in  the  Army  of 
Northern  Virginia,"  said  Mat.  "That  is  how  he  got  his  name. 
He  would  fight  anything  that  had  feathers  on  it  and  when  he  got 
stirred  up  would  tackle  a  man  or  anything  that  got  in  his  way. 
Why,  it  is  a  matter  of  regimental  history  that  our  rooster  kept 
Ed  Goree  and  me  in  ready  money  for  a  year  or  two.  There  was 
no  rooster  anywhere  that  could  stand  up  in  front  of  him.  He 
whipped  everything  and  never  put  on  the  least  bit  of  airs  over 
the  fact.  He  got  one  eye  knocked  out  in  one  of  his  battles, 
but  that  did  not  seem  to  interfere  with  his  fighting  qualities  the 
least  bit.  I  really  believe  it  helped  him,  for  it  had  a  kind  of 
demoralizing  effect  on  the  old  roosters  to  have  Jim  Longstreet 
come  at  them  with  his  head  turned  sideways  so  he  could  get  a 
focus  on  them.  They  were  not  accustomed  to  that  kind  of  an 
advance  and  he  generally  'got  their  goat'  before  the  fight  lasted 
one  round.  We  kept  him  in  perfect  condition  and  while  we  had 
no  gaffs,  we  took  charcoal  and  rubbed  down  his  spurs  so  that 
they  were  always  bright  and  sharp  as  needles. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 157 

"Ed  Gore  and  I  thought  as  much  of  that  rooster  as  though  he 
had  been  our  son.  We  took  turns  in  carrying  him  when  we  were 
on  the  march  and  if  we  had  only  one  handful  of  corn  for  our 
ration  Jim  got  half  of  it.  He  was  always  getting  in  some  trouble 
by  being  too  familiar  with  the  men.  Usually  he  roosted  on  me 
or  Ed  Goree,  but  one  night  he  took  a  notion  to  roost  on  Jim 
Langston,  who  was  perfectly  bald.  About  daylight  Jim  Long- 
street  woke  up,  and,  stepping  over  on  Jim's  bald  head,  he  threw 
back  his  head  and  sounded  reveille.  Now  if  Jim  had  re- 
mained quiet  nothing  would  have  occurred,  but  instead  of  doing 
so  he  made  a  grab  for  Jim  Longstreet,  who,  in  his  haste  to 
get  away,  closed  his  claws  and  cut  three  or  four  long  gashes  on 
Langston's  head.  He  jumped  up  and,  grabbing  his  gun,  tried 
to, shoot  Jim.  It  was  all  we  could  do  to  keep  him  from  shooting 
Jim,  but  finally  we  got  him  quieted  down. 

"When  we  went  down  to  the  peninsula  Jim  went  with  us  and 
won  a  small  fortune  for  us,  for  we  met  some  North  Carolina 
troops  down  there  and  th'ey  had  some  fighting  chickens  with 
them.  One  great  secret  of  our  success  was  that  Jim  was  mighty 
deceiving  in  his  looks.  He  was  mild  mannered  and  to  look  at 
him  you  would  not  think  butter  would  melt  in  his  mouth.  He 
would  walk  about  looking  as  if  he  would  rather  eat  than  do 
anything  else  and  would  actually  pretend  not  to  know  what  we 
were  talking  about  when  we  were  trying  to  arrange  a  fight.  He 
was  awfully  cute  that  way.  But  after  he  found  we  had  covered 
all  the  money  the  other  fellows  could  rake  and  scrape  his  whole 
manner  would  change  and  he  became  a  warrior  at  once.  It 
would  have  done  your  heart  good  to  see  Jim  going  into  battle 
with  his  head  on  one  side  so  he  could  get  a  focus  on  the  other 
fellow  with  his  one  good  eye,  and  picking  out.  the  exact  spot 
he  was  going  to  puncture.  Ed  Goree  and  I  had  as  much  faith 
in  that  rooster  winning  as  we  had  in  General  Lee,  and  neither 
one  of  them  ever  deceived  us.  We  would  follow  Lee  anywhere, 
and  we  would  bet  our  last  dollar  on  Jim  Longstreet. 

"It  is  rather  remarkable  that  both  our  favorites,  Lee  and  Jim, 
should  have  met  their  first  reverses  at  Gettysburg.  General  Lee 
had  taken  us  into  Pennsylvania  and  we  had  taken  Jim  Long- 
street  with  us,  of  course.  When  I  realized  what  a  big  fight  it 
was  going  to  be  at  Gettysburg,  I  took  Jim  back  to  the  commis- 
sary wagons  and  gave  him  to  Jim  Stanger  of  company  A,  who 
was  acting  commissary  clerk.  I  told  Jim  that  from  the  looks  of 
things  there  was  going  to  be  hell  to  pay  and  that  some  of  us 
were  going  to  get  hurt.  I  told  him  if  anything  happened  to  me 
to  give  Jim  to  Ed  Goree,  and  that  if  anything  happened  to  both 
Ed  and  me,  that  he  could  have  the  rooster,  but  he  must  promise 
to  take  good  care  of  him. 

"We  had  been  in  the  fight  all  the  morning  when  the  fire  grew 
so  fierce  that  we  could  hardly  hold  our  position.  So  many  men 
had  been  killed  and  wounded  that  our  line  was  dreadfully  thin 
and  weak.  Colonel  Powers  ordered  me  to  go  back  and  bring 
every  available  man  to  the  front,  even  those  who  were  wounded 


158 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

but  not  entirely  disabled.  I  went  back  and  got  about  twenty.  I 
went  as  far  as  the  wagons  and  there  I  saw  Jim  Stranger.  He 
was  almost  crying  and  pointed  to  a  wrecked  wagon  and  several 
dead  horses.  'Mat,'  said  he,  'poor  Jim  Longstreet  is  gone.  A 
little  while  ago  a  stray  shell  landed  square  on  that  wagon  and 
you  see  what  it  did.  Jim  was  roosting  in  the  wagon  and  the 
shell  did  not  leave  a  grease  spot  of  him.' 

"  'You  see,'  said  Mat,  'Jim  died  the  death  of  a  soldier  and 
warrior.  I  know  that  if  he  had  been  given  the  choice  of  deaths 
he  would  have  taken  what  he  got.  After  I  had  gone  back  to  the 
firing  line  and  broken  the  sad  news  to  Ed  Goree  we  lay  behind 
some  rocks  and  discussed  the.  matter.  We  finally  concluded  that 
the  shell  had  come  up  on  Jim's  blind  side  and  thus  caught  him, 
for  we  knew  him  so  well  that  we  felt  certain  he  would  have 
gotten  well  out  the  way  before  it  lit,  had  he  seen  it  coming. 

"Jim  Longstreet,  the  mule,  was  all  right  in  his  way,  but  at 
best  he  was  a  camp  follower  and  loafer,  while  Jim  Longstreet  the 
rooster  was  an  ornament  to  the  regiment  and  a  producer.  After 
we  had  been  camped  near  any  other  troops  for  a  few  days  there 
was  not  a  dollar  left  among  them,  for  Jim  would  whip  any  chicken 
they  could  produce  and  we  would  rake  in  the  money.  The  loss 
of  Gettysburg  was  a  sad  blow  to  General  Lee,  but  the  loss  of 
Jim  Longstreet  just  naturally  knocked  the  stuffin'  out  of  Ed 
Goree  and  me.  It  was  a  great  financial  disaster." 


MIKE   CONNOLY'S    ESCAPE. 

A  JEALOUS  "bad  man"  with  a  six-shooter  and  a  modest  and 
retiring  philosopher,  when  thrown  together  suddenly,  are 
apt  to  produce  complications  either  tragic  or  ludicrous. 
Some  years  ago  such  a  mixture  was  made  here  in  Houston,  and 
caused  more  laughter  than  all  the  funny  papers  combined  have 
produced  since. 

Mike  Connoly,  poet,  philosopher,  expert  telegrapher,  electri- 
cian and  all-'round  newspaper  man,  is  too  well  known  to  need 
other  introduction  than  the  mention  of  his  name.  It  is  true 
he  has  confused  the  situation  somewhat,  since  leaving  Houston 
and  going  to  Memphis,  by  becoming  a  colonel  and  changing  the 
spelling  of  his  name.  He  is  today  Colonel  Mique  Connoly,  though 
that  is  the  only  change  in  him;  he  is  the  same  old  Mike. 

In  the  early  eighties  Mike  was  chief  electrician  for  the  West- 
ern Union  Telegraph  Company,  the  office  of  which  company  was 
located  on  the  second  floor  of  the  Fox  building,  corner  of  Main 
and  Preston. 

His  duties  requiring  him  to  be  up  at  night,  he  had  to  sleep 
during  the  day  and  therefore  sought  a  room  as  far  away  from 
the  business  center  as  possible,  so  as  to  avoid  noise.  After 
much  search  he  obtained  what  he  wanted — a  room  in  a  cottage 
situated  down  in  "Frosttown,"  which  was  the  name  given  that 
part  of  Houston  down  where  the  gas  works  is  now  located.  This 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 159 

cottage  was  owned  by  a  real  "bad  man,"  a  killer,  who  was  in- 
tensely jealous  of  his  wife.  Just  why  he  should  have  been  jeal- 
ous of  her  no  one  could  understand,  for  she  was  as  ugly  as  a 
brush  fence.  But  he  was  jealous  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal 
the  fact. 

It  was  late  in  July  when  Mike  got  located,  and  everything 
moved  along  smoothly  until  about  the  middle  of  August.  One 
very  hot  Sunday  night  Mike,  being  off  duty,  went  to  his  room 
and  retired  early.  Unfortunately,  that  same  Sunday  night  the 
bad  man's  wife  concluded  to  visit  her  mother  over  in  the  Fifth 
Ward  and  the  bad  man  himself  concluded  to  get  drunk.  That 
combination  was  hard  to  beat,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
not  beaten. 

The  bad  man  arrived  home  about  midnight,  and,  finding  no 
wife  in  his  room,  he  instituted  a  search.  Of  course,  he  suspected 
Mike  at  once.  Going  to  Mike's  door  and  finding  it  locked  he 
tried  to  kick  it  open.  That  got  Mike  out  of  bed  in  a  hurry.  The 
man,  finding  he  could  not  kick  the  door  open,  drew  his  pistol  and 
shot  the  lock  off.  But  Mike  was  too  quick  for  him. 

Before  he  could  get  the  door  open  Mike  was  out  of  the  win- 
dow, out  in  the  street  and  was  well  on  his  way  to  the  banks 
of  the  bayou.  The  man  entered  the  room,  shot  under  the  bed 
and  into  the  wardrobe,  but  by  that  time  Mike  had  buried  himself 
in  the  weeds  on  the  bank  of  the  bayou  and  was  beginning  to 
realize  what  a  fix  he  was  in.  He  was  safe,  but  he  was  clad 
only  in  a  thin  summer  undershirt  that  reached  scarcely  to  his 
hips.  Aside  from  that  undershirt  he  had  not  a  stitch  of  clothes 
on  and  he  was  barefooted.  The  moon  was  full  and  the  night 
was  almost  as  bright  as  day.  Such  a  thing  as  returning  to  his 
room  for  his  clothing  never  entered  his  head.  If  he  could  only 
get  to  some  friend's  house  he  knew  he  could  get  some  clothes, 
but  how  to  get  anywhere  was  the  problem. 

Finally  he  crept  along  the  bank  of  the  bayou  until  he  reached 
the  foot  of  Main  Street,  and  then  began  working  his  way  up 
that  highway.  His  progress  was  slow,  because  he  had  to  hide 
in  doorways  and  behind  barrels  and  boxes  every  time  he  saw  any 
one  coming.  At  last  he  reached  the  Fox  building,  long  after 
midnight,  skipped  up  the  steps  and  appeared  before  the  aston- 
ished, lone  night  operator. 

Mike  explained  the  situation  and  persuaded  the  operator  to 
lend  him  his  clothes  so  he  could  get  out  and  rustle  some  for 
himself.  Mike,  as  everybody  knows,  is  long  and  lank,  while  the 
operator  was  somewhat  squatty.  Mike  had  to  have  clothes,  how- 
ever, so  he  forced  himself  into  the  borrowed  ones  and  started 
out  to  find  others.  Unfbrtunately,  he  had  a  desire  to  refresh  the 
inner  man,  so  he  headed  for  the  old  Capitol  bar,  where  he  knew 
the  "barkeep."  In  the  bar  he  met  a  number  of  his  friends  and 
had  to  tell  the  story  of  his  escape  and  take  a  drink  so  often  that 
he  forgot  all  about  the  naked  operator  he  had  left  in  the  office 
and  went  to  bed  in  the  hotel,  oblivious  to  everything.  He  slept 
until  midday,  and  when  he  awoke  he  realized  what  he  had  done. 


TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 


He  got  other  clothes  and  hurried  to  the  office,  to  find  a  half  crazy 
operator,  two-thirds  suffocated,  hiding  himself  in  the  battery 
room. 

Mike  was  a  long  time  squaring  himself  with  the  operator.  He 
never  attempted  to  have  the  bad  man  square  himself  at  all.  He 
sent  a  drayman  for  his  trunk  and  sought  other  quarters. 

*  *  * 

UNCLE  DAN  AND  CAPTAIN  FAULKNER. 

THE  other  day  I  was  talking  with  a  lot  of  old  printers 
when  one  of  them  recalled  an  incident  that  had  escaped 
my  memory  completely.  I  have  said  once  or  twice,  in 
speaking  of  Uncle  Dan  McGarey,  that  there  was  but  one  man  on 
earth  to  whom  Uncle  Dan  would  tip  his  hat.  That  man  was 
Captain  Andy  Faulkner,  who  had  commanded  Uncle  Dan's  com- 
pany during  the  war.  The  old  fellow  knew  the  great  worth  of 
the  captain  and  knew  that  he  was  a  man  under  all  circumstances 
and  conditions  and  he  always  paid  the  captain  the  utmost  de- 
ference when  in  his  presence.  Of  course  the  captain  thought 
much  of  Uncle  Dan  and  was  constantly  doing  something  for 
him.  He  liked  him  but  that  did  not  prevent  his  playing  a  prac- 
tical joke  on  Uncle  Dan  that  nearly  drove  him  crazy  for  awhile. 
Dud  Bryan,  Frank  Small,  Uncle  Dan  and  several  others  of  the 
Bohemian  Club  went  to  Austin  one  winter  while  the  Legislature 
was  in  session.  There  was  some  bill  affecting  the  railroads 
being  discussed  and  there  were  also  several  representatives  of 
the  railroads  in  Austin.  Among  the  latter  were  Captain  Faulk- 
ner and  Major  Waldo,  representing  the  Houston  and  Texas 
Central  road.  The  newspaper  boys  and  the  railroad  men  were 
together  for  a  few  days  and  then  the  newspaper  representatives 
returned  home.  An  exception  was  Uncle  Dan,  who  could  not 
be  found  when  the  party  got  ready  to  leave.  Captain  Faulkner 
said  he  would  look  out  for  him  and  ship  him  down  on  the  next 
day's  train.  The  truth  was  that  Uncle  Dan  was  out  with  some 
friends  he  had  found  in  Austin  and  was  painting  the  town  a 
vivid  red.  Finally  his  friends  fell  by  the  roadside  and  about  mid- 
night he  found  himself  alone  somewhere,  he  did  not  know  where. 
He  made  an  effort  to  get  to  the  hotel  where  he  was,  nominally 
stopping,  but  ran  against  a  policeman  on  the  way.  Acting  just 
as  he  always  did  at  home,  he  ordered  the  officer  to  get  out  of  his 
way  and  let  him  pass.  The  policeman  did  not  know  him  from 
a  side  of  bacon,  and,  judging  from  his  personal  appearance  that 
he  was  a  drunken  tramp,  he  promptly  arrested  him  and  started 
for  the  station  house  with  him.  That  sort  of  brought  Uncle  Dan 
to  his  senses  and  he  began  to  explain  who  he  was  and  to  offer 
proof  of  the  truth  of  what  he  said  if  the  policeman  would  take 
him  to  the  hotel  where  his  friends,  Faulkner  and  Waldo,  were 
staying.  The  policeman  did  not  believe  one  word  of  the  story, 
but  finally  concluded  to  stop  at  the  hotel,  as  he  had  to  pass  it 
on  the  way  to  the  station. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 161 

Captain  Faulkner  and  Major  Waldo  were  having  a  last  cigar 
before  retiring,  when  a  bell  boy  announced  that  a  policeman 
having  a  tramp  in  tow  wanted  to  see  them  for  a  moment.  They 
guessed  at  once  who  the  tramp  was  and  told  the  boy  to  bring 
the  policeman  and  his  prisoner  in  their  parlor.  In  came  Uncle 
Dan,  looking  as  bright  and  happy  at  the  prospect  of  release  as 
it  would  be  possible  for  him  to  do.  As  soon  as  the  policeman 
opened  his  mouth  to  explain,  Uncle  Dan  cut  him  short  and  ad- 
dressed Captain  Faulkner  himself. 

"You  see,  Captain,"  he  said,  "this  man  has  made  a  mistake 
and  pinched  me.  Tell  him  who  I  am  and  let  him  go." 

"Tell  him  who  you  are?"  asked  the  captain,  looking  Uncle 
Dan  straight  in  the  face  without  batting  an  eye.  "I  never  saw 
you  before.  Take  him  out  of  here,  officer,  and  lock  him  up." 

Uncle  Dan  could  scarcely  believe  his  own  ears.  He  was  too 
far  gone  to  realize  that  he  was  being  made  the  victim  of  a  joke 
and  he  concluded  that  either  the  captain  or  he  himself  had  gone 
stark  mad. 

The  policeman  chuckled,  and  grabbing  Uncle  Dan  by  the 
collar,  commenced  dragging  him  out  of  the  room.  The  poor  old 
fellow  was  too  surprised  and  indignant  to  say  a  word  until  he 
got  nearly  to  the  door  when  he  concluded  to  make  a  last  stand 
and  a  last  appeal.  Captain  Faulkner  waived  him  away  and 
pretended  to  be  intensely  indignant  that  such  a  looking  creature 
as  Uncle  Dan  should  dare  to  claim  to  be  a  friend  of  his.  "Take 
him  out  of  here  and  take  him  in  a  hurry,  too,"  he  said  to  the 
officer.  "I  am  surprised  that  an  officer  of  any  intelligence 
should  listen  to  such  a  story  as  he  has  been  telling  you.  Take 
him  away  and  lock  him  up." 

Then  the  captain  turned  his  back  on  the  officer  and  his  pris- 
oner and  pretended  to  resume  his  conversation  with  Major 
Waldo.  So  soon  as  the  door  was  closed  they  fell  over  in  con- 
vulsive laughter,  for  either  of  them  would  have  paid  good  money 
for  a  chance  to  play  such  a  trick  on  Uncle  Dan.  Half  an  hour 
later  they  sent  a  note  to  the  chief  of  police  to  release  Uncle 
Dan  and  tell  him  to  come  to  their  hotel  at  once.  They  waited 
in  vain  for  him,  for  he  caught  the  next  freight  train  out  of 
Austin  and  the  next  time  either  of  them  saw  him  was  weeks 
later  when  he  showed  up  on  Main  Street  in  Houston.  He  was 
so  indignant  that  he  threatened  to  write  both  of  them  up  in 
the  Age,  but  Captain  Faulkner  threatened  to  give  a  full  account 
of  Dan's  Austin  experience  to  Dud  Bryan  for  use  in  the  Gal- 
veston  News  and  that  scared  Uncle  Dan  off. 

*  *  *      . 

POKER    SUPERSTITIONS. 

PEOPLE  laugh  at  the  negroes  for  being  superstitious,  and 
I  suppose  when  all  the  returns  are  in  they  are  justified 
in  doing  so.     However,  if  the  most  superstitious  and  ig- 
norant negro   can   beat  the   average   well-educated   white   man 
who  plays  poker,  then  I  am  willing  to  quit. 


162 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

I  remember  years  ago,  when  I  was  young  and  giddy,  "sittin' 
in"  with  a  lot  of  professional  men.  There  was  one,  a  young 
doctor,  one  of  the  honor  graduates,  who  had  tough  luck  from 
the  start.  First  he  blamed  his  seat.  Then  he  discovered  that 
the  man  next  to  him  had  his  foot  on  his  chair.  Then  he  located 
his  hoodoo  in  the  coat;  then  in  his  vest;  then  in  a  nice  pink 
shirt  he  was  wearing.  One  by  one  he  discarded  these  garments, 
but  his  bad  luck  continued. 

Just  as  he  was  about  going  further  in  his  disrobing  his  luck 
changed  and  he  began  to  win.  "I  knew  it  was  that  shirt,"  said 
he,  and,  that  being  the  last  garment  he  had  taken  off,  he 
promptly  ordered  the  negro  boy  who  was  waiting  on  us  to  put 
it  in  the  stove  and  burn  it  up. 

Some  very  funny  things  result  from  the  active  display  of 
poker  superstitions,  as  every  one  with  the  least  experience 
knows.  I  remember  once  in  Galveston,  before  the  electric  cars 
were  established  and  the  old  horse  and  mule  motive  power  was 
used,  I  was  in  the  oar  with  a  very  distinguished  newspaper  mi\n, 
who  was  a  bit  of  a  sport. 

There  was  no  conductor,  the  driver  -ringing  up  the  fares  as 
they  were  deposited  in  the  box  by  the  passenger.  There  were 
two  cords  extending  the  length  of  the  car,  one  to  notify  the 
driver  when  a  passenger  wished  to  get  off  and  the  other  to 
register  the  fares. 

We  were  in  the  midst  of  an  interesting  conversation  when 
the  distinguished  journalist  leaped  to  his  feet,  grabbed  the  rope 
and  began  a  series  of  most  vigorous  jerks,  shouting  at  the  same 
time  for  the  driver  to  stop.  In  his  excitement  he  got  hold  of 
the  wrong  rope  and  before  the  wild-eyed  driver  could  get  to 
him  and  release  the  rope  from  hand  he  had  rung  up  about  $14 
worth  of  fares  against  the  driver. 

I  looked  out  ahead  and  saw  a  funeral  passing  down  the  inter- 
secting street  just  ahead  of  us. 

"Why,  that  fellow  liked  to  ruin  me,"  he  said  to  me.  "He  was 
going  to  pull  us  right  through  that  funeral.  I  had  that  to  happen 
to  me  once  and  I  never  held  a  thing  for  six  months." 

He  was  quiet  now  that  the  great  disaster  had  been  averted, 
but  the  driver  was  gone  "off  his  nut"  completely  when  he  looked 
at  the  register  and  recognized  that  he  was  a  financial  wreck 
unless  my  friend  paid  for  all  those  fares  he  had  registered.  I 
am  convinced  that  he  would  have  deserted  the  car  right  there 
in  the  street  and  never  gone  back  to  the  barn  again  if  my  friend 
had  not  volunteered  to  go  with  him  to  Colonel  Sinclair,  the 
president  of  the  company,  and  explain  matters  to  him. 

The  driver  readily  agreed  to  that  arrangement  and  since  the 
returns  had  been  tampered  with  and  the  box  stuffed  it  gave  him 
a  splendid  chance  to  fix  the  genuine  figures  at  any  point  he 
pleased,  which  no  doubt  he  did  to  his  own  personal  advantage. 

Another  friend  of  mine,  who  is  an  educated  man  and  who  no 
doubt  ridicules  negro  superstition,  will  abandon  any  business 
enterprise  he  may  be  engaged  in  and  will  not  resume  it  again 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 163 

that  day  if  he  meets  a  cross-eyed  woman  face  to  face.  He  claims 
that  such  a  meeting  is  absolutely  fatal  and  that  every  particle 
of  luck  abandons  him  right  then  and  there. 

Now  the  strange  part  of  the  matter  is  that  not  one  of  the 
superstitious  men  has  the  slightest  respect  for  the  pet  super- 
stition of  any  of  the  others.  Each  fellow  will  ridicule  every 
other  superstition  except  his  own.  He  feels  that  he  has  the 
only  genuine  article. 

Any  one  who  has  "fooled  with  cards"  knows  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  luck,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  can  be  demon- 
strated mathematically  that  there  is  no  such  thing.  With  mathe 
maticians  chance  does  not  exist.  For  instance,  when  a  per- 
fectly fair  dice  has  been  thrown  and  has  shown  "six,"  or  any- 
thing else,  for  four  times  hand  running,  it  will  be  mighty  hard 
to  keep  a  gambler  from  betting  odds  that  the  number  will  not 
show  up  again.  I  mean  by  odds  more  than  the  legitimate  odds 
of  5  to  1. 

There  are  six  sides  to  a  dice,  therefore  'there  is  one  chance 
in  six  of  the  same  number  showing  again,  and  yet  any  gambler 
will  be  willing  to  give  greater  odds  than  that  after  the  number 
has  shown  even  twice  consecutively.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  all 
the  throws  thaj;  have  been  made  have  not  the  least  influence 
on  those  to  follow,  so  the  odds  remain  as  they  were  at  the  be- 
ginning, 5  to  1. 

Now  the  mathematicians  can  prove  all  that,  but  what  I  would 
like  for  them  to  prove  is  that  there  is  no  good  or  bad  luck 
when  a  fellow  one  night  makes  every  hand  he  draws  to  and 
the  next  'night  can't  hold  a  thing  and  loses  every  time  he  backs 
his  hand.  If  it  is  not  luck,  what  is  it?  Is  it  that  great  mystery 
the  mathematicians  have  recently  evolved  called  the  fourth 
dimension,  by  which  they  can  explain  things  that  have  no  ex- 
istence and  have  a  man  in  jail  and  outside  of  it  at  the  same 
time? 

*  *  * 

CAPTAIN  ANDY  FAULKNER. 

EVERYBODY  remembers  Captain  Andy  Faulkner,  for  he 
has  been  dead  for  such  a  few  number  of  years  that 
maybe  some  of  the  new-issue  Houstonians  remember 
him.  He  was  a  man  not  easily  forgotten,  for  his  individuality 
was  such  as  to  stamp  itself  indelibly  on  any  community.  He 
was  for  many  years  general  passenger  agent  of  the  Houston 
and  Texas  Central  Railroad.  His  love  for  and  devotion  to  that 
road  was  sublime.  You  could  say  mean  things  about  the 
captain,  behind  his  back,  and  there  was  a  chance  for  you  to 
escape  the  consequences  of  your  indiscretion.  The  chance  was 
very  remote,  I  admit,  but  still  there  was  a  chance,  for  the  cap- 
tain might  forget  it  before  he  caught  you.  But  if  you  said  any- 
thing mean  about  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central,  you  were 
doomed,  for  the  captain  took  no  chances  about  forgetting;  he 
had  it  penciled  in  black  and  white.  He  had  all  the  Texas  news- 


164 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

papers  sent  to  his  office,  and  had  a  clerk  who  did  nothing  but 
read  those  papers  and  clip  out  every  line  that  made  reference 
to  the  railroad  and  paste  it  in  a  hig  scrap-book  he  kept  for  that 
purpose.  This  book  was  properly  indexed,  so  the  captain  had 
no  trouble  to  turn  to  the  record  of  any  particular  paper  at  once. 
When  an  editor  applied  for  a  pass  the  captain  looked  over  what 
he  had  said  about  his  road  during  the  year,  and  if  there  was  any- 
thing against  the  road  in  the  book,  the  pass  was  refused  and 
the  editor  was  referred  to  his  own  paper,  such  and  such  a  date, 
for  the  reasons. 

Captain  Faulkner  and  Colonel  Bill  Sterrett  were  warm  per- 
sonal friends  to  the  day  of  the  captain's  death,  but  professedly 
they  were  at  daggers'  points  and  if  Colonel  Sterrett  wanted  to 
reach  any  point  on  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  road  he  had 
either  to  dig  up  his  cold  cash  for  a  ticket  or  walk.  The  colonel 
had  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  refer  to  the  captain's  road 
as  "the  angel  maker,"  because  of  the  frequent  and  fatal  wrecks 
that  were  taking  place  on  it.  That  settled  him.  Captain  Faulk- 
ner placed  him  on  his  black  list  in  box  car  letters  and  kept  him 
there.  Colonel  Sterrett  got  no  more  favors,  nor  did  he  ask 
for  any.  He  practically  kept  his  reference  to  the  Houston  and 
Texas  Central  as  "the  angel  makers"  as  standing  matter  and 
ran  it  in  nearly  every  issue  of  the  paper. 

One  or  two  papers  were  silly  enough  to  copy  Colonel  Ster- 
rett's  remarks  and  make  some  of  their  own.  They  also  went 
on  the  black-list.  Colonel  Nat  Q.  Henderson  was  among  the 
erring  ones.  He  was  living  in  Georgetown,  but  happened  to  be 
in  Austin  and  wanted  to  come  to  Houston,  so  he  wrote  to 
Captain  Faulkner  asking  for  a  pass.  The  captain  looked  up 
his  record  and  found  that  it  was  generally  good  and  that  he 
had  sinned  but  slightly.  But  he  wanted  to  punish  him,  so  he 
sent  him  a  pass  "good  from  Austin  to  Hempstead  and  return." 
Colonel  Henderson  glanced  at  the  pass  and  without  reading  it 
boarded  the  train  for  Houston.  He  did  not  discover  the  trick 
until  he  got  to  Hempstead  and  the  conductor  refused  to  let 
him  come  farther  without  a  ticket  or  pass.  They  had  to  wait 
some  time  at  Hempstead  for  the  main  line  train,  so  Colonel 
Henderson  persuaded  the  conductor  that  Captain  Faulkner  had 
made  an  error  and  had  written  Hempstead  instead  of  Houston, 
as  he  should  have  done.  He  got  the  conductor  to  telegraph  to 
the  captain  for  instructions  what  to  do.  The  answer  came  back: 
"Make  Henderson  pay  fare  or  put  him  off."  He  paid  and  came 
to  Houston,  in  no  good  humor,  however. 

But  I  did  not  start  to  tell  of  Captain  Faulkner  as  a  railroad 
man.  What  I  wanted  to  speak  of  was  his  remarkable  gift  as  a 
story-teller.  He  had  a  fine  sense  of  humor,  and  was  one  of 
the  best  talkers  I  ever  knew.  In  1883  nearly  every  Sunday  night 
Tobe  Mitchell,  Colonel  O.  T.  Holt,  Colonel  Sye  Oberly  and  I 
would  sit  out  in  front  of  the  Capitol  Hotel,  now  the  Rice,  and 
listen  to  Captain  Faulkner  talk  for  hours.  He  was  always  full 
of  good,  clean,  healthy  stories  and  told  them  in  the  most  charm- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 165 

ing  manner.  I  remember  quite  a  number  of  very  funny  ones  he 
told,  but  about  the  best  was  one  he  used  to  tell  on  himself. 

He  said  he  was  in  one  of  the  fashionable  barrooms  in  Austin 
with  a  number  of  friends  one  evening  when  he  noticed  two 
rather  seedy-looking  fellows  eyeing  each  other  keenly.  Finally 
one  advanced  to  the  other  and  said: 

"Was  yo  at  the  battle  of  Gettysburg?" 

The   other   seedy  fellow   said   he  was. 

"When  yo  rebs  drove  the  Pennsylvania  troops  back,  going  to 
Little  Round  Top,  did  you  pick  a  wounded  Yankee  boy  up  and 
put  him  behind  some  rocks?" 

The  other  fellow  became  much  agitated  and  said  he  did. 

"I  was  the  boy  you  picked  up  and  I  knew  you  as  soon  as  I 
saw  you  come  in  and  have  been  trying  to  place  you." 

With  that  they  fell  into  each  other's  arms  and  embraced  warm- 
ly, after  which  they  sBook  hands  over  and  over.  Finally  each 
dug  down  in  his  pocket,  but  found  nothing.  "If  I  had  any  money 
with  me,"  said  the  Yankee,  "we  shore  would  have  a  drink  over 
this." 

The  captain  said  it  was  all  very  touching.  He  had  been  a 
soldier  himself  and  knew  what  such  meetings  as  this  meant, 
so  he  slipped  the  Confederate  a  dollar  and  told  him  to  treat 
his  friend.  But  the  other  gentlemen  who  had  witnessed  the 
scene  were  also  touched  and  became  deeply  interested  and  in- 
sisted on  buying  an  unlimited  number  of  drinks  for  the  two  old 
war  horses,  with  the  result  that  the  two  got  so  drunk  and 
boisterous  that  the  saloon  man  had  to  put  them  out. 

The  captain  said  that  a  month  or  two  later  he  was  in  Dallas 
and  went  into  a  saloon  for  the  purpose  of  getting  a  drink. 
There  was  a  crowd  near  the  bar  and  as  he  entered  he  heard  a 
familiar  voice  say: 

"Was  you  at  the  battle  of  Gettysburg?" 

He  looked  and  saw  the  two  old  "heroes"  go  through  the  same 
scene  he  had  witnessed  in  Austin.  Then  he  realized  that  they 
were  two  old  bums,  who  had  invented  this  plan  for  getting  free 
whiskey  from  a  sympathetic  crowd.  It  worked,  too,  just  as  it 
had  done  in  Austin,  and  as  it  no  doubt  worked  in  every  place 
they  visited. 

I  think  Captain  Faulkner  was  the  only  man  "Uncle"  Dan 
McGary  ever  took  off  his  hat  to.  "Uncle  Dan"  held  him  in  the 
highest  regard  and  esteem,  because  he  knew  him.  He  had 
served  in  the  captain's  company  during  the  war.  The  captain 
also  had  a  warm  place  in  his  heart  for  "Uncle  Dan."  He  said 
"Uncle  Dan"  was  one  of  the  best  soldiers  he  had  and  one  who 
could  always  be  depended  on.  He  told  a  story  of  an  old  fellow 
who  was  a  Union  sympathizer  and  who  refused  to  sell  anything 
to  the  Confederate  soldiers.  The  old  fellow  had  lots  of  corn,  but 
would  not  give  or  sell  any  of  it  to  the  Confederates,  and  as  he 
was  a  fiery  old  chap  and  backed  his  refusal  with  a  double-barreled 
shotgun  there  were  only  two  things  to  do:  kill  him  or  give  up 
all  hope  of  getting  corn.  One  day  Captain  Faulkner  told  "Uncle 


166 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Dan"  to  take  a  wagon  and  go  over  and  buy  a  load  of  corn  from 
this  old  fellow.  He  gave  him  the  money  to  pay  for  it  and  told 
him  to  avoid  all  trouble,  but  to  get  the  corn  if  possible.  After 
a  very  short  time  "Uncle  Dan"  came  back  with  the  corn  and  the 
money,  too. 

"Oh,  he  didn't  raise  any  objection  when  I  commenced  loading 
up  the  wagon,"  said  "Uncle  Dan." 

"How  was  that?"  inquired  the  captain. 

"Well,"  said  "Uncle  Dan,"  "as  soon  as  he  showed  up  with  his 
gun  I  took  it  as  a  declaration  of  war  and  I  pied  him  right  then 
and  there.  I  knew  I  would  have  to  do  it  before  our  interview 
closed,  so  I  didn't  waste  any  time,  but  plugged  him  and  argued 
the  matter  with  myself  afterward." 


MIXED  TEXAS  HISTORY. 

»HE  other  day  I  was  in  a  Main  Street  store  making  a  small 
purchase.  The  young  man  who  waited  on  me  was  an 
intelligent  looking  chap  and  was  as  talkative  as  the 
proverbial  barber.  I  did  not  know  him  but  he  knew  me,  and 
after  discussing  the  paving  question  and  kindred  matters  he 
made  pleasing  reference  to  some  of  my  articles  in  the  Chronicle, 
saying  he  had  enjoyed  reading  them  very  much. 

"I  read  your  article  on  the  battle  of  San  Jacinto,"  he  said.  "It 
was  fine  and  I  enjoyed  reading  it  very  much.  I  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  find  that  Col.  Hamp  Cook  was  as  old  as  that  makes 
him  out  to  be.  Let's  see,  the  battle  of  San  Jacinto  was  fought 
in  1861,  was  it  not?" 

.  I  thought  he  was  joking,  of  course,  but  a  glance  at  him  con- 
vinced me  that  he  was  in  dead  earnest,  so  I  said:  "Oh,  no,  the 
battle  was  fought  in  1873." 

"Why,  of  course.  What  was  I  thinking  about?  It  was  the 
battle  of  the  Alamo  that  was  fought  in  1861.  Somehow  I  always 
get  the  two  mixed  up." 

Now,  that  remarkable  interview  actually  took  place  just  as  I 
have  described  it.  One  marvels  at  such  ignorance  of  Texas  his- 
tory, yet  that  ignorance  is  more  general  than  anyone  imagines. 
To  the  credit  of  the  Texas  boys  I  am  glad  to  be  able  to  record 
the  fact  that  the  young  clerk  was  not  a  Texan  but  had  come 
to  Houston  a  year  or  two  ago  from  Chicago.  I  have  never  met 
a  Texas  boy  who  could  not  tell  all  about  the  Alamo  and  San 
Jacinto. 

Last  winter  I  met  with  a  more  remarkable  example  of  ig- 
norance than  my  clerk  exhibited.  It  was  in  San  Antonio  at  the 
Gunter  Hotel.  There  was  a  large  party  of  excursionists  going 
to  California.  They  stopped  over  in  San  Antonio  for  a  day.  In 
the  party  was  a  young  man  who  had  just  been  graduated  from 
one  of  the  theological  schools  in  Massachusetts.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  some  place  between  Los  Angeles  and  San  Francisco  to 
take  charge  of  a  church.  He  was  an  Episcopalian. and  was  well 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTANIANS  167 

educated  in  everything  except  Texas  history.  We  took  a  walk 
and  when  we  reached  the  plaza  I  pointed  out  the  Alamo  to  him. 

"Really,  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  the  question,  but  what  is  the 
Alamo  and  what  does  it  stand  for?"  he  said. 

I  thought  he  was  trying  to  make  fun  of  me  at  first,  but  a 
glance  at  his  face  showed  me  that  he  was  seriously  seeking  in- 
formation. With  such  a  text;  with  the  Alamo  itself  in  front  of 
me,  I  was  able  to  make  rather  a  good  talk  and  when  I  finished 
up  with  San  Jacinto,  my  young  preacher  was  about  as  enthusias- 
tic over  Texas  history  as  I  was.  We  returned  to  the  hotel  and 
after  lunch  he  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  the  smoking  room. 
When  we  got  there  I  found  that  he  had  gathered  about  a  dozen 
of  his  traveling  companions  and  after  making  a  short  talk  himself 
he  begged  me  to  repeat  what  I  had  told  him  about  the  Alamo 
and  San  Jacinto  for  the  benefit  of  his  friends. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  found  myself  lecturing  on  his- 
tory. I  began  with  Bradburn's  misdeeds  at  Anahuac  in  1831, 
which  really  started  the  Texas  Revolution  and  ended  with  San 
Jacinto.  They  were  all  greatly  interested  in  what  I  told  them  and 
I  was  intensely  proud  of  being  a*  native  of  a  state  which  has 
such  a  history.  The  preacher  became  enthusiastic  again  and 
before  he  left  the  city  he  purchased  every  book  he  could  find 
that  had  any  Texas  history  in  it. 

It  seems  strange  to  us  that  there  should  be  anybody  ignorant 
about  our  state's  history,  and  yet  the  average  Texan  is  about 
as  ignorant  of  the  history  of  most  of  the  other  states  of  the 
Union.  It  is  true  that  no  other  state  has  a  history  so  striking 
and  so  worthy  of  being^  known,  yet  some  of  them  do  have  worthy 
histories  and  the  average  Texan  knows  no  more  about  them  than 
those  northern  gentlemen  knew  about  Texas. 

I  suppose  the  self  confessed  ignorance  of  the  Massachusetts 
gentlemen  is  more  general  and  widespread  than  is  supposed,  for 
those  who  do  not  know  what  the  Alamo  is  are  wise  enough  not 
to  admit  the  fact,  but  keep  their  mouths  closed  until  they  inform 
themselves.  That  is  the  way,  I  know  I  would  do  if  I  visited  Mas- 
sachusetts and  any  point  or  incident  in  the  state's  history  came 
up  for  discussion  about  which  I  knew  nothing. 

The  Alamo  has  always  been  an  incentive  to  Texans  urging 
them  to  the  performance  of  deeds  of  patriotism  and  valor,  and 
at  times  it  has  been  something  of  a  heavy  handicap.  Everybody 
remembers  the  speech  made  by  President  Davis  at  the  breaking 
out  of  our  great  war  to  the  Texas  troops  in  the  Army  of  North- 
ern Virginia.  "The  troops  from  other  states,"  he  said,  "have 
reputations  to  make;  you  Texans  have  one  to  sustain." 


EARLY   NEWSPAPER   MEN. 

WHO  among  the  oldtime  newspaper  men  does  not  remem- 
ber Dr.  McBride?    There  was  a  yellow  journalist  that 
would  make  some  of  the  yellow  of  today  look  like 
pure  white.     The  doctor  simply  lived  thirty  years  too  soon.    Had 


168 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

he  been  of  today  he.  could  have  commanded  his  own  salary,  and 
Hearst  would  have  gone  down  on  his  knees  to  get  him  on  any 
of  his  papers. 

He  was  the  Texas  representative  of  the  St.  Louis  Globe-Demo- 
crat, which  made  a  special  feature  of  crimes  in  Texas.  They 
could  not  have  gotten  a  better  man  than  he,  for  he  had  absolute 
genius  in  handling  such  matters.  He  could  take  an  ordinary  item, 
such  as  an  exchange  of  shots  between  gentlemen,  which  would 
be  dismissed  with  a  few  paragraphs  today  and  turn  out  a  couple 
of  columns  of  as  sensational  and  readable  stuff  as  anyone  could 
wish  to  see.  The  doctor  got  to  be  a  monomaniac  on  the  subject 
of  crime.  He  thought  of  nothing  else,  and  with  him  no  other 
item  had  even  the  flavor  of  news.  Tell  him  that  a  syndicate 
was  going  to  build  a  million  dollar  hotel  and  the  chances  were 
that  he  would  forget  it  before  he  had  gone  a  block,  but  tell  him 
that  a  negro  bootblack  had  used  a  razor  on  a  competitor  and  he 
would  run  all  over  town  to  get  the  details,  or  the  hints  for  details 
to  be  supplied.  I  met  him  one  afternoon  and  he  was  in  great 
good  humor:  "The  old  town  is  waking  up,"  he  said.  "Things 
are  beginning  to  boom.  Why,  I  got  a  suicide  and  a  murder  this 
afternoon  and  I  haven't  had  two  such  good  items  in  a  long  time." 
Just  that  little  remark  will  show  you  what  kind  of  a  reporter 
he  was. 

Very  frequently  the  doctor  furnished  some  of  the  sensations 
himself,  for  he  published  the  news  as  he  found  it,  painted  and 
exaggerated,  of  course.  He  spared  no  one,  and,  of  course,  was 
frequently  in  hot  water.  It  is  an  actual  fact  that  on  one  occasion 
there  was  a  woman  with  a  bull  whip  in  her  hand  on  one  corner, 
a  banker  with  a  six-shooter  on  another  corner  and  a  policeman 
with  a  club  further  down  the  street,  all  waiting  for  the  doctor, 
because  he  had  written  them  up  in  the  Globe-Democrat.  Now, 
the  funny  part  of  it  was  that  the  doctor,  totally  oblivious  to 
the  fact  that  there  was  so  much  war  fixed  for  him,  just  at  that 
very  time,  was  engaged  in  a  knock  down  and  drag  out  with  little 
Quick,  a  reporter  on  the  Age,  not  two  blocks  from  where  his 
friends  were  waiting  for  him.  The  trouble  between  the  doctor 
and  Quick  had  no  connection  with  the  St.  Louis  paper,  but  it 
surely  saved  the  doctor  a  lot  of  trouble  that  morning.  I  believe 
the  woman  and  the  banker  did  catch  him  afterward,  but  they 
had  had  time  to  cool  off  and  were  not  so  enthusiastic  as  they 
would  have  been  while  the  grievance  was  fresh  on  their  minds. 

When  I  was  about  six  years  old  a  German  stabbed  his  wife  in 
the  street  and  she  was  taken  into  my  grandfather's  house  and 
died  in  his  dining  room.  The  man  was  convicted  and  sent  to 
the  penitentiary  for  life.  Thirty  years  afterward  he  was  par- 
doned. One  of  the  newspapers  mentioned  the  location  of  the 
murder  and  also  mentioned  the  fact  that  the  woman  died  in  my 
grandfather's  house.  Dr.  McBride  hunted  me  up  at  once.  I  told 
him  all  I  knew,  which  was  simply  the  fact  that  she  was  stabbed 
and  brought  into  the  house  and  died  a  few  minutes  afterward. 
That  was  enough  for  him.  He  got  three  columns  of  as  magnifi- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 169 

cent  reading  matter  out  of  it  as  you  ever  saw.  Old  Uncle  Dick 
Wescott  was  running  the  Age  at  that  time  and  was  perfectly 
familiar  with  all  the  details  of  the  crime.  He  went  for  the 
doctor  hot-footed  and  heaped  ridicule  and  scorn  on  his  head,  but 
he  might  as  well  have  poured  water  on  a  duck's  back.  The  doc- 
tor was  simply  incorrigible. 

Another  great  character  of  that  same  time  was  Colonel  Charley 
Martin,  who  was  city  editor  on  the  Telegram.  He  was  of  a 
different  type,  and  he  had  nothing  of  the  sensational  or  startling 
about  him.  He  was  a  good  newspaper  man  and  a  dignified  gen- 
tleman. He  was  a  scrapper  from  away  back,  which  made  for 
his  success,  for  in  those  days  there  were  no  convenient  managing 
editors  to  stand  sponsor  for  everything  in  the  paper,  but  every 
reporter  had  to  fight  for  his  own  items. 

Charley  soon  established  a  "reputation"  and  after  that  he  had 
clear  sailing,  and  his  whole  career  might  have  been  one  of  dig- 
nity and  success  to  the  end  but  for  an  accident. 

One  cold  winter  night,  after  a  hard  day's  work,  the  colonel 
sought  pleasure,  relaxation  and,  incidentally  a  warm  place,  at  the 
theatre.  Milt  Noble  was  playing  "Phoenix"  at  Perkins  Hall  and 
there  was  a  big  audience  there.  The  house  being  full  the  man- 
ager gave  the  colonel  a  box  all  to  himself.  He  watched  the  play 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  being  weary  and  the  seat  in  the  box 
being  very  comfortable,  he  promptly  went  to  sleep.  He  was 
snoring  away  peacefully,  when  a  noise  on  the  stage  brought  him 
to  earth  and  he  opened  his  eyes  on  the  famous  fire  scene.  He 
did  not  know  for  a  moment  where  he  was.  All  he  knew  was 
that  the  house  was  on  fire,  and  yelling  "Fire ! "  "Fire ! "  at  the  top 
of  his  voice,  he  leaped  out  of  the  box  onto  the  stage.  The  au- 
dience thought  it  was  part  of  the  play  and  applauded  loudly, 
but  Charley  knew  better.  He  slipped  out  of  a  side  door  and  left 
town  the  next  morning  before  the  story  got  out.  He  went  to 
Dallas  and  did  not  come  back  to  Houston  for  ten  years. 


PROOF  THAT  FLIES  THINK. 

BEING  somewhat  bald  I  have  had  rather  more  difficulty  and 
trouble  with  flies  than  the  average  man.    They  have  acted 
meanly  with  me,  too,  and  at  times,  have  actually  gone 
out  of  their  way  to  annoy  me.    I  have  read  all  about  their  spread- 
ing disease  and  of  how  filthy  they  are  and  furthermore  I  know 
that  everything  that  has  been  said  to  their   disparagement  is 
true,  yet  in  the  face  of  all  this  I  have  learned  to  admire  and  to 
almost  honor  the  fly.    I  have  discovered  that  they  have  sense 
just  like  folks  and  that  they  have  a  fine  appreciation  of  the  hu- 
morous side  of  things. 

Not  long  ago  they  formed  the  habit  of  coming  in  my  room  and 
sitting  on  my  bed  waiting  for  me  to  try  to  take  my  afternoon 
nap.  I  got  a  towel  and  went  for  them.  They  simply  dodged, 
laughed  and  made  such  a  lot  of  fly  racket  that  others  from  the 


170 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

outside  came  to  see  the  fun  and  having  come,  stayed  to  join  in 
the  play. 

Those  flies  thought  I  was  playing  tag  with  them  and  they 
entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  game  in  a  whole-hearted  way  that 
discouraged  me.  Actually  my  efforts  to  kill  them  with  a  towel 
increased  their  number  and  I  gave  up  in  despair.  One  day  I 
spoke  of  my  trouble  to  a  friend  and  he  suggested  that  I  go  to 
the  drug  store  and  get  a  "swat  the  fly,"  a  piece  of  iron  screen 
hitched  to  a  handle.  As  he  explained,  the  wind  from  my  towel 
blew  the  fly  aside  before  the  towel  reached  him  and  that  is  why 
the  fly  enjoyed  the  game  so  much,  knowing  he  was  in  no  danger 
and  that  he  was  exhausting  me  by  hanging  around  and  encourag- 
ing me  to  hit  him  with  the  towel.  Well,  I  got  the  swat  thing 
and  laid  for  my  flies.  So  soon  as  I  made  out  I  was  going  to 
take  a  nap,  they  put  in  an  appearance,  abandoning  everything 
else  they  were  doing  to  devote  themselves  to  me.  But  I  fooled 
them.  Two  settled  down  on  the  bed  and  pretended  not  to  be 
noticing  me,  sat  there  as  if  it  were  they  who  were  going  to  take 
a  nap  instead  of  I.  I  brought  down  my  swat  thing  on  them  and 
as  there  was  no  wind  to  warn  them  I  got  both  of  them.  Others 
came  and  others  fell,  too,  and  for  half  an  hour  I  had  everything 
going  my  way.  I  killed  every  fly  in  sight  and,  having  become 
bloodthirsty  by  now  I  hunted  for  more.  Some  who  had  seen  the 
slaughter  and  retreated  must  have  spread  the  news,  for  I  longed 
for  more  flies  to  swat,  none  came.  They  would  come  as  far 
as  the  window  and  look  in  but  you  could  not  hire  a  fly  to  enter 
the  room  and  strut  around  as  they  had  all  been  doing. 

Having  thus  been  brought  in  such  close  communication  with 
flies  I  learned  to  respect  them  greatly.  I  also  learned  that  they 
are  keen  observers  and  that  having  seen  a  thing  once  they  rec- 
ognize it  thereafter.  Now  sometimes  when  I  am  absent  the 
flies  will  take  things  easy  just  as  they  used  to  do.  They  even 
go  so  far  as  to  ignore  my  presence  completely  and  pay  no  at- 
tention to  me  at  all.  But  they  watch  me  closely  and  stand  pre- 
pared to  act  promptly.  When  I  get  ready  to  clear  the  room  of 
their  presence,  I  do  not  exert  myself  at  all.  I  merely  pick  up 
my  swat  the  fly  machine  and  they  leave  in  a  body. 

Learned  professors  may  argue  that  flies  can't  reason  and  that 
they  can't  talk,  but  I  want  those  professors  to  explain  to  me  how 
those  flies  know  the  difference  between  a  towel  which  gives 
warning  of  its  approach  and  the  wire  contraption  that  gives  none. 
Furthermore,  how  do  the  flies  inform  each  other  that  I  have 
picked  up  the  swatter?  They  can't  all  be  watching  me  at  the 
same  time  and  yet  every  one  of  them  departs  at  the  sight  of  the 
swatter.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  not  been  able  to  get  near 
a  fly  with  my  swatter  in  a  week  and  if  I  want  a  quiet  nap 
all  I  have  to  do  is  to  place  the  swatter  on  the  bed  where  the 
flies  can  look  in  the  window  and  see  it  and  not  one  will  venture 
in  the  room. 

I  don't  know  anything  about  flyology,  if  there  is  such  a  thing, 
but  I  do  know  that  a  fly  has  as  much  sense  as  a  man  about 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 171 

some  things  and  that  the  fellow  who  takes  Mr.  Fly  for  a  fool 
is    almost    one    himself. 

Now,  the  concerted  action  on  the  part  of  flies  when  I  pick 
up  my  swatter,  precludes  any  other  idea  than  that  flies  can 
talk.  If  I  could  hear  and  understand  their  language  I  am  con- 
fident I  would  hear  some  old  fellow  call  out:  "Git  He's  got 
his  swatter.  This  is  no  place  for  us!"  When  you  see  dozens 
of  them  take  wing  as  one  fly  and  rush  out  of  the  window,  you 
can  safely  bet  that  something  like  that  has  been  said  by  one 
of  their  pickets  and  that  they  have  acted  promptly  on  the  warn- 
ing. 

This  is  not  written  to  fill  space  but  is  a  record  of  actual  oc- 
currences and  of  the  evidence  of  high  intelligence  of  the  fly. 
He  has  simply  got  more  sense  than  anybody  credits  him  with 
having. 

*  *  * 

JIM   AND  SHORTY. 

MY  FIRST  meeting  and  acquaintance  with  those  kings  of 
Bohemian  printers,  if  there  are  any  such  things, 
"Shorty"  Parish  and  Jim  Baker,  dates  from  the  sum- 
mer of  1880.  I  had  just  begun  newspaper  work  and  was  in  the 
editorial  room  of  the  Post  late  one  night  when  "Shorty"  and 
Jim  came  in.  They  had  evidently  been  in  luck,  for  they  were 
pretty  well  loaded  and  were  in  the  best  of  humor. 

"So  you  are  going  to  run  a  newspaper,"  said  "Shorty."  "You 
are  making  a  big  mistake.  There's  nothing  in  it.  Quit  it 
while  you've  got  time.  It  eats  up  more  money  than  anything  in 
the  world.  A  newspaper  is  the  only  thing  that  ever  beat  the 
devil  and  that  is  the  only  good  thing  I  ever  heard  about  one  of 
them.  Yes,  I'll  tell  you  how  it  was.  A  man  sold  his  soul  to  the 
devil  for  all  the  money  he  could  spend,  the  devil  to  produce 
every  Saturday  night.  That  man  sure  had  a  good  time.  He 
spent  money  for  everything  he  could  think  of,  but  the  devil  al- 
ways had  the  cash  on  Saturday  night.  The  man  built  railroads, 
ship  canals,  erected  big  dams  and  went  into  every  big  thing  he 
could  hear  of,  but  the  devil  always  promptly  paid  the  bills.  The 
man  got  desperate,  for  the  time  was  drawing  near  for  him  to 
settle  with  the  devil.  One  day  he  established  a  newspaper,  just 
as  you  and  Gail  Johnson  are  doing.  The  first  and  second  pay- 
ments were  made  promptly  by  the  devil,  but  the  old  chap 
began  to  look  blue.  In  a  few  months  the  devil  asked  for  a 
little  extension  of  time  and  at  the  end  of  the  next  week  he 
gave  up  the  job  altogether  and  tore  up  the  contract.  Now  that's 
a  true  story  and  you  better  take  warning  from  it." 

"Shorty"  then  asked  for  what  he  called  "brain  food,"  which 
was  his  name  for  newspapers,  and  taking  a  large  bundle  of 
exchanges,  he  waddled  away  in  company  with  Jim  Baker. 

These  were  the  two  most  distinguished  members  of  the 
"bummers"  crowd  that  ever  graced  Houston,  Galveston  and  other 
Texas  cities,  where  there  was  any  printing  to  be  done.  They 


172       TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

were  fine  printers,  regular  experts,  but  they  worked  only  spas- 
modically, and  when  they  were  forced  to  do  so  by  stern  ne- 
cessity. There  were  no  type-setting  machines  in  those  days. 
The  old  fashioned  printer  set  type  by  hand.  Both  Jim  and 
"Shorty"  were  good  members  of  the  union  and  could  always 
get  at  least  a  day  or  two's  work  in  any  union  office  and  that 
was  all  either  of  them  wanted. 

"Shorty"  was  in  constant  trouble  with  the  barkeepers.  He 
would  show  up  frequently  minus  a  hat  or  coat,  which  articles 
of  wearing  apparel  had  been  ruthlessly  seized  by  some  irate 
saloon  man  in  liquidation  of  his  bar  bill.  About  1882  "Shorty" 
went  to  Galveston  and  Major  Lowe  performed  the  miracle  of 
sobering  him  up.  Then  the  most  wonderful  things  occurred. 
"Shorty"  turned  out  to  be  an  exquisite,  a  regular  dude.  He 
broke  out  in  broadcloth,  patent  leather  boots,  stovepipe  hat,  kid 
gloves  and  gold-headed  cane.  He  was  sober  so  long  that  he 
was  made  foreman  of  the  News  composing  room.  It  was  really 
a  treat  to  see  him  walk  down  Tremont  or  Market  Street.  He 
was  a  good  looking  little  fellow  and  for  about  a  year  was  the 
envy  of  the  men  and  the  admiration  of  the  ladies.  One  night 
he  was  tempted  and  fell.  His  glory  departed  like  a  summer 
cloud,  just  faded  away,  and  the  old  bum  printer  was  in  full  swing 
before  the  end  of  the  week.  "Shorty"  never  attempted  to  regain 
a  new  foothold,  but  went  down  with  flying  colors,  the  colors  he 
had  chosen.  He  went  to  the  News  office  and  got  an  armful  of 
"brain  food"  one  afternoon  and  about  9  o'clock  that  night 
some  one  going  to  his  room  found  him  sitting  in  his  chair  with 
his  glasses  on,  a  newspaper  spread  out  on  his  knee,  stone  dead. 

Jim  Baker  was  somewhat  different  from  "Shorty."  He  never, 
for  one  thing,  ever  quit  drinking  voluntarily.  When  he  quit 
there  was  a  cause,  other  than  moral.  He  had  a  voice  that  would 
have  been  worth  a  fortune  for  an  ambitious  tragedian.  It  was  a 
grand  voice  and  when  he  would  repeat  a  poem  or  some  extract 
from  one  of  Bob  Ingersoll's  speeches,  it  was  worth  listening  to. 
He  was  a  great  schemer  and  could  get  a  quart  of  whiskey 
where  "Shorty"  could  not  get  a  drink.  One  of  the  amusing 
things  I  remember  about  him  was  once  when  he  tried  to  work 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Clemens,  rector  of  Christ  Church.  Mr.  Clemens 
was  one  of  the  best  and  most  tender-hearted  men  and  was  always 
eager  to  respond  to  an  appeal  for  assistance.  He  was  in  the 
Post  editorial  room  one  night  when  Jim  rushed  in  with  the  re- 
quest for  a  half  dollar,  saying  that  he  was  hungry  and  had  not 
eaten  for  two  days.  Mr.  Clemens  listened  to  his  tale  of  woe 
and  then,  taking  him  by  the  arm,  hurried  him  down  to  a  res- 
taurant and  told  the  man  to  give  Jim  the  biggest  supper  he 
could  fix  up.  Mr.  Clemens  took  a  seat  to  see  Jim  enjoy  the  meal. 
It  was  brought,  but  Jim  could  not  eat  a  mouthful  of  it.  He  made 
a  clean  breast  to  Mr.  Clemens  and  never  tried  to  impose  on  that 
gentleman  again  for  drinks.  Mr.  Clemens  forgave  him  his  de- 
ception and  gave  him  an  order  for  a  night's  lodging  at  a  nearby 
boarding  house.  Jim  actually  needed  the  bed,  so  he  took  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 173 

order.  Instead  of  going  to  the  place  at  once,  he  got  drunk  and 
went  there  about  midnight.  He  had  gotten  an  idea  in  his  head 
that  he  owned  the  place  by  that  time,  so  when  he  descended  on 
the  boarding  place,  he  did  so  like  a  whirlwind  and  kicked  up 
such  a  row  that  the  police  were  called  in  and  they  locked  him 
up.  Poor  fellow.  He,  too,  is  dead  and  gone.  He  died  in  Dallas 
several  years  ago,  keeping  up  his  record  and  beating  "Shorty" 
to  the  grave. 

*  *  * 

A    LIVELY   ELECTION. 

1HEAR  that  Houston  is  going  to  have  an  election  next 
summer  and  that  already  the  pot  is  beginning  to  boil.  It 
may  boil  until  it  runs  over,  but  it  can  never  reach  one-tenth 
the  heat  and  animation  that  characterized  our  elections  in  recon- 
struction days.  Those  were  the  hot  times,  sure  enough,  and  no 
mistake  about  it.  There  was  no  Australian  ballot,  no  registra- 
tion, nor  any  of  the  modern  devices  to  check  an  unlimited  ex- 
ercise of  the  franchise.  A  fellow  could  vote  as  many  times  as 
he  had  nerve  to  do  so,  and  if  he  took  care  to  vote  "right"  when 
the  right  crowd  was  around  he  could  get  away  with  it. 

About  the  most  strenuous  election  that  was  ever  pulled  off  in 
those  strenuous  days  was  the  one  held  in  1873  or  1874,  I  forget 
the  exact  date.  Mr.  William  R.  Baker  was  the  Democratic 
nominee  for  the  State  Senate,  and  Colonel  John  T.  Brady  was 
supported  by  the  Republicans,  though  avowedly  running  as  an  in- 
dependent. Early  in  the  action  it  became  evident  that  the  candi- 
dates who  could  get  the  most  outside  voters  here  would  carry 
the  day.  The  Republicans  sent  out  their  agents  with  dragnets 
and  secured  a  large  number  of  negroes  from  Fort  Bend,  Brazoria 
and  adjoining  counties.  Some  of  these  came  in  a  week  or  two 
before  election  day  and  hung  around  attending  torchlight  pro- 
cessions and  political  meetings,  but  the  bulk  of  the  negroes 
were  held  in  reserve  to  show  up  the  day  before  and  on  election 
day. 

The  Democrats  were  apparently  snowed  under,  for  they  gave 
no  indication  of  doing  anything  to  overcome  the  black  overflow. 
It  looked  blue  for  "Billy"  Baker  and  he  apparently  had  no  more 
chance  than  a  snowball  in  that  unmentionable  place.  The  night 
before  election  the  Democrats  had  a  torchlight  procession  and 
public  speaking,  but  that  was  done  apparently  more  for  appear- 
ance than  anything  else. 

But  Billy  Baker,  who  was  president  of  the  Houston  and  Texas 
Central  Railroad,  had  a  card  up  his  sleeve  that  was  worth  all 
those  the  Republicans  were  playing  so  openly.  On  the  morning 
of  the  election  trains  began  to  arrive  at  the  Central  Depot  from 
stations  as  far  north  as  Denison,  and  every  train  had  a  full  load 
of  section  men  and  other  railroad  employes  who  had  come  to 
Houston  to  vote  for  "the  boss."  Every  one  claimed  Houston  as 
his  home  and  every  one  voted  for  Baker,  not  once  but  as  many 
times  and  under  as  many  names  as  he  could.  Baker  was  elected, 


174       TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

of  course,  but  even  with  the  enthusiastic  support  of  the  Irish 
brigade  he  was  elected  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth.  His  majority 
was  so  small  that  it  was  scarcely  worth  the  name.  It  would 
be  a  most  difficult  task  for  any  mathematician  to  figure  out 
just  what  Brady's  majority  would  have  been  if  Mr.  Baker  had 
not  thought  of  his  Irishmen. 

He  could  not  have  secured  a  better  following  or  one  more  de- 
termined to  assert  their  "rights"  than  those  Irishmen.  They 
could  not  be  browbeaten  or  intimidated,  and  took  pleasure  in 
bulldozing  the  negro  voters,  who  showed  good  sense  by  keep- 
Ing  out  of  their  way  a-s  much  as  possible.  That  was  one  day 
and  one  election  on  which  Uncle  Dick  Wescott  was  in  his  ele- 
ment and  perfectly  happy.  He  had  things  going  his  way  from 
start  to  finish.  It  took  several  days  to  get  the  imported  Irish 
voters  out  of  town.  There  were  special  trains  that  left  on 
schedule  time  to  take  them  back,  but  they  stayed  to  enjoy  the 
fruits  of  their  victory,  and  they  had  a  good  time,  too. 

The  next  time  Mr.  Baker  forgot  to  bring  the  Irish  brigade, 
or  thought  he  could  win  without  their  help,  and  he  got  left. 
Colonel  Brady  beat  him,  but  by  only  a  small  majority,  as  the 
negro  vote  also  was  rather  lacking  and  lukewarm,  owing  to  the 
vigilance  of  the  white  voters.  The  sheriff  was  after  some  of 
the  leaders  for  various  crimes,  and  they  were  afraid  to  show 
up  in  Houston. 

I  know  all  such  statements  as  these  sound  queer  to  the  present 
generation  of  voters,  but  they  must  remember  that  it  was  a 
case  of  fighting  the  devil  with  fire,  and  a  death  struggle  for  white 
supremacy.  The  most  honorable  men  recognized  that  it  was 
right  to  do  any  and  every  thing  short  of  actual  murder  to  carry 
their  point  and  they  did  not  hesitate  to  do  it. 

Major  Lowe  used  to  tell  of  an  election  in  Louisiana,  when  the 
Democratic  manager  telegraphed  to  an  eminent  lawyer  and.fine 
gentleman  who  lived  in  an  out-of-the-way  precinct,  telling  him 
he  must  send  in  returns  showing  450  Democratic  majority.  A 
day  or  two  after  he  got  a  letter  in  which  the  gentleman  informed 
the  manager  that  he  had  done  what  he  had  been  told  to  do,  but 
that  it  was  a  rather  difficult  task,  as  there  were  only  thirty-five 
votes  in  that  precinct. 

Now,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  the  Republicans  were  doing 
exactly  the  same  things  and  that  it  was  simply  a  question  of 
who  could  do  the  most  of  it. 

*  *  * 

HOW  THE    RABBIT-FOOT  WORKED. 

PROFESSOR  PROCTOR  in  one  of  his  essays  draws  atten- 
tion to  the  fact  that  there  is  as  much  superstition  involved 
in  combating  a  superstition  as  there  is  in  hanging  to  it. 
He  says  that  the  man  who  holds  that  a  ship  that  sails  on  a  Friday 
will  have  a  prosperous  voyage  is  just  as  superstitious  in  one 
direction  as  the  man  who  claims  that  the  ship  will  have  bad 
luck  if  it  sails  on  a  Friday.     When  one  thinks  of  it  Proctor  is 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 175 

right,  for  both  the  good  and  the  bad  are  problematical  and  each 
is  likely  to  prevail.  Therefore  it  is  just  as  superstitious  to  be- 
lieve in  the  good  as  in  the  bad,  so  far  as  the  influence  of  Friday 
is  concerned. 

But  I  am  not  going  to  write  about  superstition  from  a  scientific 
viewpoint,  but  am  going  to  tell  of  some  of  the  pet  superstitions 
of  some  of  my  friends.  I  doubt  if  there  are  many  telegraph 
operators  except  Colonel  Phil  Fall  and  Colonel  D.  P.  Shepherd 
who  remember  little  Jack  Graham,  the  best  operator  and  the 
gamest  sport  that  ever  handled  a  telegraph  key  or  bet  on  a  four- 
flush.  Jack  loved  a  "quiet  little  game"  better  than  anything  on 
earth  and  would  have  resigned  the  presidency  of  the  Western 
Union  had  it  come  between  him  and  a  nice  game.  He  was  not  a 
plunger,  but  loved  a  small  game  better  than  he  loved  to  eat,  and 
could  always  be  counted  on  to  take  a  hand  when  anything  was 
doing. 

In  those  days  there  were  a  number  of  us  who  had  more  money 
than  sense,  so  we  organized  a  small  club  and  we  had  regular 
Saturday  night  games,  which  generally  extended  over  until  nearly 
daylight  Monday  morning.  Jack  was  always  there  and  among 
the  first  to  get  there,  too.  As  I  have  said,  it  was  a  small  game, 
and  being  table  stakes,  it  was  a  safe  game  as  well. 

One  Saturday  night  we  had  been  playing  for  some  time  and 
Jack  was  having  the  most  outrageous  luck.  Every  hand  he  got 
he  found  that  some  one  had  a  larger.  He  had  visited  the  "lamp 
post"  (which  in  plain  English  means  that  he  had  gone  out  and 
floated  a  check  or  borrowed  some  money)  two  or  three  times 
and  was  fast  losing  his  patience  as  well  as  his  wealth.  He  got 
cranky  and  tried  all  the  tricks  of  \  poker  game  to  change  his 
luck.  He  swapped  seats,  turned  his  chair  around,  and  did  every- 
thing else  he  could  think  of.  It  was  no  use,  and  he  continued 
to  lose.  Finally,  after  about  the  fourth  visit  to  the  "lamp  post" 
he  found  he  had  misplaced  his  bag  of  tobacco  and,  searching 
for  it  through  his  pockets,  he  found  a  rabbit  foot  that  he  had 
put  away  and  forgotten  all  about.  You  should  have  seen  the 
smile  that  lit  up  his  countenance  when  he  found  that  foot.  It 
restored  his  confidence  and  he  was  a  new  man  at  once.  He 
came  back  and,  taking  his  seat,  he  carefully  dusted  every  one 
of  his  chips  and  then  heaped  them  over  the  rabbit-foot. 

"Watch  me  do  you  wolves  now,"  he  said.  "From  this  moment 
you  are  my  meat." 

Actually,  I  felt  sorry  to  see  an  intelligent  man  give  way  so 
blindly  to  superstition  as  Jack  was  doing,  for  he  showed  abso- 
lute confidence  in  the  potency  of  his  talisman.  He  did  not 
have  a  doubt. 

Four  or  five  hands  were  played  with  no  features  of  interest 
about  any  of  them,  as  a  rule  the  opener  taking  the  pot  without 
opposition.  Finally  I  skinned  my  hand  and  found  four  eights 
pat.  A  man  named  Bright  just  ahead  of  me  opened  the  pot  and 
I  simply  trailed.  When  it  reached  Jack  he  came  in  and  tilted 
the  opener  modestly.  One  other  man  came  in,  but  merely  stood 


176 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Jack's  raise.  Bright  stood  the  raise  without  tilting  it  and  I 
"saw"  Jack  and  doubled  the  pot  as  a  raise.  I  was  so  certain 
of  the  pot  that  I  did  not  want  to  scare  anybody  out.  Jack 
"saw"  my  raise,  but  went  no  further;  the  man  next  to  him 
dropped  out,  but  Bright  played,  thus  leaving  three  of  us  in  the 
game.  On  the  draw  Bright  took  two  cards,  I  took  one;  to  our 
great  surprise  Jack  took  three,  showing  that  he  had  only  one 
pair. 

Without  looking  at  his  draw,  Bright  threw  a  blue  chip  in  the 
pot.  I  simply  "saw"  Bright's  bet,  but  when  it  came  to  Jack  he 
tilted  the  pot  away  up  yonder.  I  was  certain  that  Bright  had 
opened  on  a  set  of  threes  and  I  was  praying  for  him  to  catch  a 
pair  and  make  a  "full  house,"  but  he  evidently  did  not  do  so, 
for  he  hesitated  a  long  time  about  calling  Jack's  bet.  The  pot 
was  now  large  enough  for  me  to  take  an  interest  in  it,  and  so  I 
played  my  hand.  I  "saw"  all  that  was  in  the  pot  and  gave  it 
a  substantial  boost.  Jack  instantly  sized  up  my  chips  and  then 
set  in  a  stack  more.  I  felt  certain  that  Jack  had  come  in  on 
kings  or  aces  and  had  caught  his  third  man.  Bright  threw  down 
his  openers,  three  sixes,  and  quit.  The  play  was  now  up  to  me. 
I  knew  the  pot  was  mine  and  I  hated  to  beat  Jack  further,  but  I 
saw  a  chance  to  beat  him  and  at  the  same  time  teach  him  a 
lesson  about  the  folly  of  depending  on  superstition  in  a  poker 
game.  I  looked  at  him  and  said: 

"Jack,  you  are  in  bad  luck,  and  I  hate  to  pound  a  loser,  but 
I  am  going  to  teach  you  a  lesson  and  impoverish  you  at  the 
same  time.  I  tap  you,"  saying  which  I  shoved  all  my  chips  into 
the  pot. 

Jack  liked  to  have  broken*  his  arm  getting  his  chips  in,  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"Now,  Jack,"  I  said,  "I  had  you  beaten  all  the  way  through, 
and  I  would  not  have  bankrupted  you  except  that  I  saw  a  chance 
to  teach  you  a  good  lesson  about  the  folly  of  playing  poker 
with  a  rabbit-foot.  I  had  these  four  eights  all  the  time."  Saying 
this,  I  spread  my  hand  out  on  the  table  and  reached  for  the  pot. 

"Hold  on  there,"  said  Jack.  Then,  without  showing  his  hand 
he  reached  over  and  carefully  inspected  each  of  my  eights.  "Yes, 
you've  got  'em,"  he  said,  "but  why  don't  you  stay  out  until  you 
get  something  better?"  Saying  which,  he  laid  down  four  jacks 
and  raked  in  the  pot.  He  had  stayed  on  two  jacks  and  had 
caught  the  other  two  on  the  draw. 

Now  I  hate  to  confess  it,  but  nevertheless  it  is  true,  when 
the  game  broke  up  I  tried  to  buy  that  rabbit-foot  from  Jack. 
Instead  of  converting  Jack  he  had  converted  me.  It  has  been 
a  long,  long  time  since  I  played  cards  of  any  kind,  but  I  'admit 
that  if  I  were  going  to  get  in  a  game  tonight  I  would  feel  far 
more  comfortable  if  I  took  a  rabbit-foot  along  than  if  I  went 
without  one,  and  I  sure  would  let  the  fellow  alone  who  had  one 
in  front  of  him. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 177 

BILLY   TOOLE. 

ALL  the  old-time  printers  and  newspaper  men  remember 
little  Billy  Toole.  There  was  never  but  one  Billy  and 
there  will  never  be  another.  The  time  and  place  were 
just  right  and  Billy  fitted  in  just  as  a  setting  does  in  a  ring.  In 
the  strict  business  of  commercial  life  today  Billy  would  be  an 
impossibility,  but  in  the  late  70's  and  early  80's  things  were  the 
reverse  of  what  they  are  today  and  Billy  was  enabled  to  flour- 
ish in  all  his  glory. 

Now,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Billy  was  a  real  and  genuine  Bo- 
hemian. He  was  the  real  article  in  every  sense  of  the  word. 
He  was  a  skilled  printer  in  the  days  when  type  was  set  by  hand 
and  skill  counted  for  something.  He  had  a  brilliant  imagination 
and  was  fond  of  writing  blood  and  thunder  stories,  some  of 
which  would  have  done  credit  to  Ned  Buntline.  The  only  defect 
about  Billy's  stories  was  that  he  never  completed  any  of  them. 
He  would  leave  the  hero  or  heroine  in  the  most  blood-curdling 
situation,  and  without  taking  the  trouble  to  get  him  or  her  out, 
would  lay  aside  his  manuscript  and  start  in  on  another  story, 
the  scene  of  which  would  perhaps  be  on  the  other  side  of  the 
world.  Billy  almost  completed  one  story,  which  had  such  merit 
that  Professor  Girardeau  urged  him  to  complete  and  publish  it, 
but  he  never  did  so. 

Billy  was  "little  but  he  was  loud."  No  Spanish  gamecock 
was  ever  more  eager  for  battle  than  he  on  any  pretext  or  excuse. 
It  is  a  remarkable  statement  to  make,  nevertheless  it  is  true, 
Billy  rarely  went  to  war  and  met  with  defeat.  In  some  way  he 
always  managed  to  come  out  winner.  The  only  time  he  suffered 
absolute  defeat  was  when  he  bucked  against  John  Barleycorn. 
He  would  try  that  game,  too,  being  a  genuine  Bohemian,  but  he 
met  the  fate  of  all  those  brave  but  unwise  people  who  enter 
the  unequal  fight. 

Billy  figured  as  the  star  actor  in  one  of  the  most  laughable 
shooting  affairs  that  ever  occurred  on  Main  Street,  and  by  way 
of  parenthesis  it  may  be  said  here  that  he  had  the  sympathy  and 
backing  of  every  man  in  town,  when  all  the  facts  were  learned. 

Billy,  after  "looking  on  the  wine  that  was  red"  went  wander- 
ing into  the  "Ironclad"  gambling  house  on  Main  and  Congress. 
He  did  not  like  something  that  was  said  or  done  and  expressed 
his  opinion  of  the  whole  crowd  of  gamblers  from  the  proprietor 
down.  For  this  offense  he  was  promptly  handed  over  to  the 
official  "bouncer,"  who  was  a  great,  big,  strapping  fellow.  The 
man  was  a  brute  and,  though  he  could  have  taken  Billy  up  with 
one  hand  and  carried  him  down  stairs  like  a  baby,  he  proceeded 
to  handle  him  in  the  most  brutal  and  outrageous  manner.  He 
slugged  and  beat  him  and  then,  grabbing  him  by  the  lapels  of 
his  coat,  he  butted  him  in  the  face.  Then  he  carried  him  down 
and  deposited  him  on  the  sidewalk. 

Billy  was  pretty  nearly  dead,  but  he  was  so  angry  it  put  life 
and  energy  enough  in  him  to  enable  him  to  go  off  and  borrow 


178 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

a  six-shooter.  Unfortunately  the  only  pistol  he  could  get  was  an 
old  army  pistol  that  was  large,  heavy  and  hard  to  handle.  Billy 
took  this  and  went  back  to  get  his  man.  He  stood  on  the  corner 
and  waited.  Before  long  the  brute  showed  up,  and,  not  knowing 
Billy's  intentions,  advanced  on  him  as  though  he  were  going  to 
attack  him  again.  Then  Billy  pulled  out  his  artillery  and  the 
fellow  turned  and  fled.  Billy  fired  one  shot  and  took  'after  the 
man.  The  gun  was  so  heavy  he  had  to  hold  it  up  with  both 
hands.  He  would  run  up  close,  stop,  cock  his  pistol  and,  hold- 
ing it  with  both  hands,  would  fire  at  the  fellow.  It  was  strictly 
a  running  fight  and  extended  from  Congress  to  Preston,  clearing 
the  sidewalk  of  everybody  except  Billy  and  his  victim.  I  am 
not  certain,  but  I  think  Billy  hit  his  man  once  or  twice.  I  am 
certain  of  one  thing,  though:  that  is  that  Billy  came  in  for  gen- 
eral condemnation  for  being  so  bad  a  shot  and  not  having  killed 
the  brute  the  first  shot  out  of  the  box.  The  only  extenuating 
circumstance  was  that  Billy  claimed  the  gun  was  so  heavy  he 
could  not  handle  it  with  any  degree  of  satisfaction  and  that  he 
had  done  his  best  and  could  have  done  no  more  under  the  circum- 
stances. 

Billy  was  fond  of  practical  jokes,  and  on  one  occasion  he 
came  near  ruining  a  fine  oration  by  one  of  Houston's  most  bril- 
liant lawyers,  by  asking  a  question  and  making  a  fool  remark 
just  at  the  wrong  time.  The  occasion  was  a  lecture  or  rather 
oration  on  the  tariff  question,  the  object  being  to  explain  what 
the  tariff  really  is.  The  oration  was  in  the  opera  house  and 
the  great  power  of  the  speaker  being  known,  the  affair  was 
made  something  of  a  society  event  and  the  house  was  crowded 
with  ladies.  Billy  was  there  in  all  his  glory,  seated  away  back 
in  the  gallery.  The  speaker  had  nearly  completed  his  address 
when  Billy  stood  up  and  called  out:  "May  I  ask  you  a  question, 
major?"  The  major  recognized  him  and  answered:  "Certainly, 
Mr.  Toole." 

"Did  I  understand  you  to  say  that  the  tariff  was  a  tax  on 
everybody,  though  so  concealed  that  its  presence  is  not  recognized 
by  all?" 

"That  is  correct  in  substance,"  said  the  major. 

"All  right,  major,"  said  Toole.  "That  puts  the  drinks  on 
you.  It's  all  I  wanted  to  know,"  and  he  went  out  of  the  hall. 

The  interruption  and  the  irrelevant  reply  of  Billy  so  upset 
the  major  that  he  forgot  "where  he  was  at"  and  made  a  halting 
and  stumbling  close  of  an  address  that  had  started  off  brilliantly 
and  been,  to  the  time  of  Billy's  interruption,  one  of  the  best 
efforts  of  his  life. 

For  many  days  after  that  Billy  kept  his  eye  skinned  for  the 
major  and  always  succeeded  in  seeing  him  first.  He  knew  it 
would  not  do  to  meet  the  major  until  he  cooled  off. 

I  have  often  wondered  how  Billy  managed  to  die  a  natural 
death,  for,  according  to  all  chances  and  probabilities,  he  should 
have  been  killed  a  dozen  times.  He  did  more  to  be  killed  for 
than  nine-tenths  of  those  who  were  actually  killed.  Not  long  ago 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 179 

I  read  of  a  fellow  out  in  a  West  Texas  town  who  armed  him- 
self with  a  piece  of  lead  pipe  and  strolled  down  the  street, 
slugging  every  man  whose  looks  he  did  not  like.  When  I  read 
that  my  thoughts  reverted  to  Billy  Toole,  for  that  was  his 
method  of  doing  business,  barring  the  lead  pipe,  of  course. 


KIRBY-STEEL  FEUD. 

1LIKE  Waller  County.    I  like  Hempstead  and  I  like  the  people 
who  live  up  that  way.    There  are  many  reasons  for  this. 
Personally  I  have  none  but  the  pleasantest  memories  of 
the  old  town  of  Hempstead,  for  it  occupies  first  place  in  my  own 
"first  experiences." 

My  first  stage  ride  was  made  from  Houston  to  Hempstead, 
though  I  must  admit  that  my  memory  of  it  is  only  in  spots,  one 
of  the  "spots"  being  a  large  drove  of  wild  horses  which  we  saw 
on  the  prairie  about  fifteen  miles  from  Houston,  and  another 
"spot"  being  our  arrival  at  Hempstead.  The  first  railroad  ride 
I  ever  took  was  from  Houston  to  Hempstead  when  the  Houston 
and  Texas  Central  Railway  was  completed  to  that  place.  There 
was  a  big  barbecue  and  everybody  in  Houston  went  on  that 
excursion.  Later  I  spent  some  very  happy  school  vacations  at 
the  hospitable  home  of  Mr.  Jarad  Groce,  near  Hempstead. 

All  these  things  combined  render  my  memory  of  Hempstead 
and  Waller  County  very  pleasant.  The  people  up  that  way 
are  noted  for  their  hospitality  and  kindly  reception  of  strangers. 
That,  of  course,  is  commendable,  but  it  is  not  the  reason  I  like 
them.  I  know  I  may  shock  some  of  The  Chronicle's  readers 
when  I  say  it,  but  my  real  admiration  for  the  Waller  County 
people  is  due  to  the  fact  that  they  are  not  "pikers."  Whatever 
they  do  they  throw  their  whole  heart  and  souls  into  it  and  do 
it  completely.  They  remind  me  of  a  sleeping  volcano  that  lies 
dormant  for  years  and  then  suddenly  blows  up  and  leaves  only 
the  fragments  behind. 

When  they  are  peacefully  inclined,  jack  rabbits  are  as  raging 
hyenas  compared  to  them,  but  when  they  start  on  the  other  tack 
they  do  not  raise  any  Sunday  school  "hades"  or  "Gehenna,"  or 
anything  so  euphonious  sounding  as  that,  but  start  right  in  with 
the  genuine  article  and  raise  unadulterated  hell.  It  has  been 
said  that  any  sport  who,  ambitious  of  becoming  a  bad  man,  was 
on  the  warpath  seeking  trouble,  could  find  more  of  the  genuine 
article,  done  up  in  a  greater  variety  of  styles,  in  Hempstead  than 
in  any  other  place  in  Texas.  Just  why  this  is  so  no  one  seems  to 
understand,  for  as  a  rule  the  people  of  Waller  County  are  among 
the  best  in  the  state  and  year  after  year  the  most  profound 
peace,  law  and  order  prevail. 

Still  there  are  always  toes  to  be  trodden  on,  and  a  Waller 
County  man  was  never  known  to  thwart  the  intentions  of  a 
would-be  treader  by  withdrawing  his  toes.  The  trouble  hunter 
is  always  sure  of  being  met  fully  half  way.  There  must  be 


180 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

some  cause  for  the  existence  of  so  much  latent  pugnacity,  such 
dogged  persistency,  when  once  the  "warpath"  is  taken,  and, 
above  all,  for  the  reckless  daring  and  coolness  of  the  men  when 
"in  action." 

I  have  thought  over  the  matter  and  concluded  that  it  is  all 
a  question  of  heredity.  It  was  born  in  them  and  they  can't  help 
it.  My  reason  for  saying  this  is  that  I  know  something  of  their 
fathers  and  grandfathers.  In  early  days  that  section  was  settled 
by  some  of  the  best,  most  prominent  and  influential  families 
who  came  to  Texas. 

Conflicting  interests,  political  differences  and  other  causes 
led  to  individual  quarrels  and  difficulties;  personal  friends  and 
relatives  took  sides  and  soon  there  were  fueds  that  resulted 
in  bloody  conflict.  The  fights  were  always  many  fights — the 
stand  up,  give  and  take  kind.  Such  a  thing  as  an  assassination 
was  almost  unknown  and  when  one  occasionally  occurred  ten 
to  one  both  the  assassin  and  his  victim  belonged  to  the  lowest 
order  of  criminals.  The  genuine  feuds  frowned  on  the  work  of 
an  assassin  and  when  a  Brown  or  two  were  killed  by  a  Smith 
or  two  there  was  no  effort  made  to  conceal  the  fact.  It  was 
done  in  the  open  and  everybody  knew  how,  why  and  when  it 
was  done. 

In  those  days  there  was  a  powerful  and  influential  planter 
living  near  Hempstead — Colonel  Kirby.  There  was  also  another 
man  there  who  less  prominent  in  social  and  financial  circles, 
but  one  possessed  of  strong  character,  personal  bravery  and 
other  admirable  qualities  that  enable  a  man  to  establish  himself 
anywhere  as  a  man.  This  latter  was  Captain  John  Steel,  a 
hero  of  San  Jacinto.  He  had  a  farm  which  he  and  his  son  cul- 
tivated. For  some  cause  Steel  and  Kirby  quarreled.  Kirby  had 
a  hundred  friends  where  Steel  had  one,  but  that  made  no  dif- 
ference to  Steel,  who  would  not  yield  an  inch.  Kirby  ordered 
Steel  to  leave  the  country,  while  Steel  flatly  refused  to  go.  Some 
of  Kirby's  friends  caught  young  Steel  one  night  and  just  for  fun 
made  out  they  were  going  to  hang  him.  They  did  not  hurt  him, 
but  turned  him  loose  after  scaring  him  badly.  This  enraged 
Captain  Steel  and  he  sent  word  to  Colonel  Kirby  that  he  was 
going  to  kill  him  on  sight.  Colonel  Kirby  treated  the  message 
with  contempt  and  sent  back  word  to  Steel  that  he  was  going  to 
treat  him  as  a  common  criminal  and  that  if  he  (Steel)  were 
found  in  Waller  County  by  midnight  the  next  night  he  was  going 
to  have  him  hanged  to  the  first  tree  he  could  find.  That  settled 
it.  It  was  no  longer  a  matter  between  two  men,  but  was  one 
of  a  single  man  against  a  dozen  or  more.  Steel  knew  Kirby 
would  do  exactly  what  he  said  he  would  do.  So  he  acted  with 
discretion  and  left  for  Houston  at  once.  He  had  to  sacrifice  his 
home  and  everything  to  save  his  life,  but  he  did  so,  bearing  in 
mind  all  the  time  that  some  day  he  would  be  able  to  square 
his  account  with  Kirby. 

Steel  remained  in  Houston  until  the  close  of  the  war.  The 
army  of  occupation  came  in  and  everything  was  under  semi- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 181 

martial  law.  One  day  Colonel  Kirby  came  to  Houston  to  consult 
with  the  commander  of  the  post,  whose  office  was  on  the  second 
floor  of  the  old  Wilson  building,corner  of  Main  Street  and  Con- 
gress Avenue.  On  the  same  day  and  at  the  same  hour  Captain 
Steel  went  to  consult  Judge  Hamblen,  his  lawyer,  who  had  an 
office  in  the  same  building  just  opposite  the  commander's  office. 
Their  business  completed,  both  Kirby  and  Steel  stepped  out  in 
the  hall  from  the  respective  offices  and  for  the  first  time  since 
their  trouble,  came  face  to  face.  Not  a  word  was  spoken  by 
either.  Like  a  flash  Steel  drew  his  pistol  and  fired  and  Kirby 
sank  to  the  floor  and  died.  Steel  was  arrested  and  placed  in 
Jail.  He  was  soon  admitted  to  bail  and  then  his  case  came  to 
trial  and  he  was  acquitted. 

At  the  time  when  Colonel  Kirby  was  killed  he  had  a  young 
son  only  four  or  five  years  old.  This  boy  was  too  young  to 
appreciate  the  great  loss  he  had  sustained,  but  as  he  grew  up 
he  learned  all  the  details,  and  though  he  never  gave  a  hint  of 
that  fact,  he  evidently  brooded  over  it  and  determined  to  be 
avenged.  He  was  sent  away  to  one  of  the  older  states  and  grad- 
uated from  a  leading  college  with  honor.  He  then  entered  a  law 
school,  developed  fine  oratorical  power  and  graduated  at  the 
head  of  his  class.  He  returned  home,  and  as  his  fame  had  pre- 
ceded him,  he  was  given  a  royal  welcome  by  his  own  friends 
and  by  those  of  his  father. 

In  the  meantime  Captain  Steel  had  moved  back  to  Waller 
County  and  was  living  in  or  near  Hempstead.  Young  Kirby 
never  mentioned  Steel's  name  and  gave  no  indication  that  he 
knew  of  his  existence.  Kirby  did  know  it,  though,  and  had  made 
all  his  plans.  The  following  Sunday  morning  Steel,  now  an  old 
man,  was  coming  out  of  the  church  door  with  his  old  wife  hold- 
ing to  his  arm.  As  he  got  completely  out  he  was  confronted  by 
young  Kirby,  who  had  stepped  from  behind  a  tree,  with  a  gun  in 
his  hand.  Again  the  old  tragedy  was  re-started.  Steel  and 
Kirby  again  faced  each  other,  though  in  this  last  meeting  the 
ground  of  vantage  was  shifted  and  Kirby  held  the  winning  hand. 
Again  not  a  word  was  spoken.  There  was  a  sharp  report  and 
Steel  was  sent  to  his  final  account  in  identically  the  same  way 
that  he  had  sent  Colonel  Kirby  to  his.  Young  Kirby  disappeared 
at  once.  If  any  effort  was  ever  made  to  catch  him  it  was  only 
perfunctory  and  half-hearted,  for  everybody  felt  that  he  had 
done  only  right  in  killing  the  man  who  had  killed  his  father  and 
doing  it  in  the  same  way  that  the  first  killing  had  been  done. 

Now,  this  is  only  one  of  many  similar  cases  that  took  place 
in  Waller  and  neighboring  counties,  and  while  there  are  no  feuds 
up  that  way  now  there  is  lots  of  the  same  blood  that  caused  the 
old  ones,  and  while  conditions  now  do  not  favor  family  bicker- 
ings and  contentions,  there  is  the  same  old  martial  spirit  up 
that  way  that  occasionally  slips  its  bridle  and,  as  remarked  al- 
ready, proceeds  to  raise  genuine  hell. 


182 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

NEGRO   FIREMEN    DURING  THE   WAR. 

IN  1863  every  able-bodied  man  in  Houston  who  was  anything 
of  a  man  at  all  had  gone  in  the  army.  Houston's  fine 
volunteer  fire  department  existed  only  in  name,  for  all  the 
young  men  comprising  it  had  promptly  volunteered  at  the  first 
call.  There  were  only  the  old  men  and  boys  left  and  as  these 
were  poor  material  from  which  to  make  active  firemen,  the  situ- 
ation was  rather  grave.  There  was  a  good  hook  and  ladder 
outfit,  that  of  Hook  and  Ladder  Company  No.  1,  and  two  fire 
machines — I  came  near  saying  engines,  but  they  were  not.  They 
were  the  old-fashioned  machines  that  had  a  pump  somewhere  in 
the  middle,  worked  by  two  side  arms  having  at  their  ends  long 
bars,  which  were  worked  up  and  down  by  from  ten  to  fifteen 
men  on  each  side.  Doubtless  many  readers  of  The  Chronicle 
have  seen  pictures  of  these  old  fire  fighting  machines,  which 
texist  now  nowhere  else  except  in  pictures.  But  there  was  no 
one  here  to  work  even  these  old  machines,  so  it  was  finally  de- 
termined to  detail  a  number  of  negroes  to  act  as  firemen  under 
white  officers.  The  negroes  made  splendid  firemen  and  enjoyed 
it  so  much  that  it  was  feared  by  some  of  the  timid  citizens  that 
the  negroes  would  start  fires  just  for  the  fun  and  pleasure  of 
putting  them  out. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  watch  the  negro  firemen  at  a  fire.  They 
threw  their  whole  souls  into  the  work  and  seemed  never  to 
grow  weary,  although  it  was  the  hardest  kind  of  work  and  fre- 
quently lasted  for  two  or  three  hours  without  stop  or  rest. 
Nominally  they  were  under  the  control  of  white  men,  but  actual- 
ly, after  they  got  their  pumps  going  and  their  streams  of  water 
well  directed,  they  were  under  their  own  control,  so  far  as 
running  those  handlebars  was  concerned.  A  little  whiskey 
handed  around  in  a  bucket  and  drunk  out  of  a  tin  cup  without 
water  was  all-sufficient  to  keep  them  on  the  go  under  a  full 
head  of  steam  for  hours.  They  sang,  of  course,  for  a  real  negro 
can  do  nothing  that  requires  rapid  action  without  singing,  and 
they  composed  their  own  words  and,  I  suspect,  their  own  tunes, 
too. 

I  remember  a  big  fire  that  qccurred  down  by  where  the  gas 
works  now  are,  in  1863.  Quite  a  number  of  small  houses  were 
burned.  Of  course,  with  the  present  day  fire  department  the 
fire  would  never  have  extended  beyond  the  first  house,  but  at 
that  time  whenever  a  house  caught  fire,  if  there  was  one  near 
it,  it  was  pretty  apt  to  go,  too.  Anyway,  four  or  five  went  that 
time,  one  after  the  other,  the  negroes  fighting  the  fire  like 
demons,  and  singing  like  angels,  for  they  do  sing  sweetly.  One 
of  my  grandfather's  negroes,  John  Cook,  better  known  to  every- 
body as  "Big  John,"  because  of  his  great  size,  was  choir  leader. 
He  would  sing  a  verse  alone  and  then  other  negroes  would  take 
up  the  refrain.  I  heard  the  song  so  often  that  I  remember  the 
tune  and  one  of  the  verses.  I  can't  give  you  the  air,  but  I  can 
give  the  verse,  which  was  as  follows: 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 183 

"If  I  had  a  wife  and  she  wouldn't  dress  fine, 

Whiskey,  oh  whiskey! 
I'd  leave  this  world  and  climb  a  pine. 

Whiskey,   oh  my  whiskey! 

Big  John,  who  had  a  powerful  voice,  would  sing: 

"If  I  had  a  wife  who  wouldn't  dress  fine," 
and  then  the  crowd  would  join  in  with 
"Whiskey,   oh  whiskey!" 

It  was  fine.  There  were  about  fifty  verses,  but  the  one  I  give 
is  all  that  I  remember.  The  air  was  very  musical  and  the 
words  fitted  well  to  the  beat  of  the  handlebars,  so  that  the  work 
of  handling  them  became  a  real  pleasure  instead  of  hard  work, 
as  it  would  have  been  without  the  singing.  It  was  something 
like  going  to  a  good  concert  to  attend  a  fire  in  those  days. 

I  don't  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  negro  fire  com- 
pany in  existence  today  anywhere  in  the  United  States,  but  if 
there  is,  it  can't,  with  modern  fire  fighting  apparatus,  be  any- 
thing like  the  old  negro  company  that  Houston  had  during  the 
war. 

*  *  * 

HISTORICAL    SPOTS. 

PUTTING  that  tablet  on  the  Rice  Hotel  building  to  designate 
the  point  where  the  capitol  of  the  Republic  of  Texas 
once  stood  was  a  good  idea,  but  there  are  one  or  two 
other  points  whose  historical  memories  also  should  be  preserved. 
One  of  the  chief  of  these  is  the  Preston  Street  bridge,  for  where 
it  stands  once  stood  the  pioneer  bridge  of  Houston,  over  which 
passed  the  commerce  of  Texas.  Until  1842  there  was  no  bridge 
across  Buffalo  Bayou.  There  was  little  or  no  need  for  one,  for 
north  of  Houston  there  was  only  scant  settlement  and  what 
travel  was  done  was  mainly  to  and  from  the  west  over  the  San 
Felipe  Road,  which  passed  to  the  west  of  the  bayou.  The  stray 
farmer  or  traveler  from  the  north  or  east  had  either  to  go 
around  the  head  of  the  bayou  or  use  Stockbridge  ford  at  the 
foot  of  Texas  Avenue.  But  in  the  early  40's  a  bridge  became 
absolutely  necessary,  because  Montgomery,  Washington  and 
Grimes  Counties  were  settling  up  rapidly  and  the  farmers  de- 
sired some  speedier  means  of  getting  to  the  "city." 

The  city  built  the  bridge  at  the  foot  of  Preston  Street,  as  it 
was  called  then,  and  it  stood  for  a  number  of  years,  until  swept 
away  by  a  big  rise  in  the  bayou.  When  it  was  replaced  a  longer, 
higher  and  stronger  bridge  was  built,  and  this  was  known  as  the 
"Long  Bridge."  It  stood  for  years  and  was  the  only  means  of 
communication  between  Houston  and  the  rapidly  growing  in- 
terior. Over  it  passed  the  cotton,  hides,  corn  and  all  farm  prod- 


184 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

ucts  that  were  brought  here  to  be  marketed  and  all  goods  for 
the  interior,  purchased  in  Houston,  were  taken  back  over  this 
bridge.  Farmers  and  merchants  from  as  far  north  as  Waco 
came  to  Houston  to  sell  their  produce  and  to  purchase  their 
goods.  Both  for  the  sake  of  company  and  for  mutual  protection 
they  traveled  in  companies  of  four  or  five,  and  it  was  no  unusual 
thing  to  see  a  row  of  wagons,  each  drawn  by  from  eight  to  six- 
teen oxen,  crossing  "Long  Bridge."  Then,  too,  Main  Street  and 
Market  Square  would  present  a  strange  sight  when  crowded  with 
oxen  and  ox  wagons.  It  used  to  be  a  hard  pull  from  the  end  of 
the  bridge  on  this  side  to  Louisiana  Street.  Preston  Street  has 
been  cut  down  and  graded  since  then,  but  in  the  early  days  it 
was  uphill  from  the  bridge  to  Louisiana  Street,  and  it  was  all 
deep  white  sand.  It  was  a  regular  sandhill  and  a  big  wagon 
loaded  with  several  bales  of  cotton  had  need  of  all  the  oxen 
obtainable  to  get  through  safely.  I  have  seen  teams  doubled  up 
more  than  once  and  two  or  three  trips  made  to  get  the  wagons 
through. 

Of  course,  from  over  on  the  Brazos  the  wagons  came  in  over 
the  San  Felipe  Road,  but  the  great  bulk  of  the  commerce  of 
Texas  passed  over  the  Preston  Street  bridge.  All  the  cotton 
raised  in  Texas  at  that  time  was  brought  to  Houston  and  sold 
here  and  all  the  goods  consumed  in  the  interior  were  bought 
here.  The  cotton  crops  in  those  days  were  small  affairs  as  com- 
pared with  those  of  today,  hence  it  was  possible  for  the  Houston 
merchants  to  finance  the  whole  crop.  Of  course  the  fact  that 
very  little  cash  was  paid  out,  the  cotton  being  traded  for  both 
goods  and  cash,  rendered  it  possible  for  even  a  small  merchant 
to  do  a  big  business  and  in  this  way  the  foundations  were  laid 
for  some  of  the  big  fortunes  many  of  the  Houstonians  made. 
In  those  days  a  favorite  sport  among  the  boys  was  sledding. 
The  sleds  were  made  by  rounding  off  the  ends  of  two  pieces  of 
plank,  to  serve  as  runners,  and  then  joining  them  together  by 
nailing  a  stout  piece  in  front  and  a  broad  piece  behind  to  serve 
as  a  seat.  A  long  rope  was  attached  to  the  front  end  and  the 
whole  thing  was  ready  for  use.  When  an  ox  wagon  came  along 
we  would  slip  up  behind  it,  pass  the  rope  around  the  rear  axle, 
or  whatever  it  is  called,  and  then  drawing  it  far  enough  back  so 
as  to  be  able  to  sit  on  the  sled  and  hold  the  loose  end,  we  would 
mount  the  sled  and  ride  to  our  heart's  content,  or  until  the 
driver  discovered  us.  If  he  showed  hostile  intentions,  all  we 
would  have  to  do  was  to  turn  loose  the  end  of  the  rope,  grab 
our  sled  and  get  away.  It  was  lots  of  fun  then,  but  looking  back 
on  it  now,  I  can  see  that  there  was  lots  of  hard  work  about  it,  too. 

But  I  have  wandered  from  the  point  I  wanted  to  make,  that  of 
showing  how  appropriate  it  would  be  for  the  Cotton  Exchange, 
the  Board  of  Trade,  Chamber  of  Commerce,  or  all  of  these  or- 
ganizations, to  take  steps  to  mark  appropriately  the  point  where 
the  commerce  of  the  State  of  Texas  passed,  long  before  the 
days  of  railroads. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 185 

JACK  AND  JIM    MARTIN. 

HOUSTON  has  produced  many  men  who  have  made  names 
for  themselves  in  civil,  military  and  naval  life  and 
others  still,  who,  while  they  never  attained  success  in 
financial,  commercial,  military  or  naval  circles,  still,  by  their 
marked  individuality  so  impressed  themselves  on  the  early  his- 
tory of  Houston  that  it  is  impossible  to  speak  of  youthful  Hous- 
ton without  recalling  them. 

Two  of  the  latter  kind  were  the  Martin  brothers,  Jack  and 
Jim.  They  were  of  a  type  seldom  seen  now.  They  were  gam- 
blers and  absolutely  honest  men.  I  don't  suppose  either  ever 
took  the  shade  of  an  unfair  advantage  over  an  opponent  nor 
would  they  have  a  man  in  their  employ  who  was  even  suspected 
of  being  crooked.  As  Jack  used  to  explain,  "Cheating  don't 
pay  in  the  long  run.  If  a  gambler  can't  win  out  with  the  advan- 
tage of  having  the  percentage  of  the  game  in  his  favor  and  the 
other  advantage  of  making  the  other  fellow  do  all  the  guessing, 
he  better  quit." 

Both  Jack  and  Jim  had  the  respect  and  confidence  of  the 
business  men  of  Houston  and  though  they  never  pretended  to 
be  anything  more  than  what  they  were — professional  gamblers, 
their  word  was  good  without  other  security  for  any  amount  of 
money  within  reason  with  such  men  as  A.  B.  Sheppard,  T.  W. 
House,  Sr.,  Paul  Bremond,  Wm.  J.  Hutchins  or  any  of  the  big 
merchants  or  bankers  of  those  days. 

Jack  was  relatively  taciturn.  I  say  relatively,  because  had 
it  not  been  for  Jim,  Jack  might  have  been  considered  an  or- 
dinarily talkative  man.  However,  Jim  was  such  a  conversa- 
tionalist, told  such  interesting  and  instructive  stories,  and  had 
had  so  broad  an  experience  which  gave  an  inexhaustible  fund 
from  which  to  draw,  that  Jack  always  seemed  to  be  something 
of  a  clam  when  Jim  was  around. 

They  had  a  fine  establishment  on  the  second  floor*  of  a  build- 
ing about  two  stores  north  of  where  Sweeney's  Jewelry  store 
now  stands  on  Main  Street,  between  Prairie  Avenue  and  Pres- 
ton Avenue,  and  their  rooms  were  always  well  filled  by  planters, 
interior  merchants  and  others  who  came  to  Houston  to  sell 
their  cotton  and  sugar  and  who  were"  always  willing  to  take 
a  whirl  at  faro  to  pass  away  the  time  and  hear  Jim  talk. 

With  all  his  good  nature,  his  talkativeness  and  apparent  in- 
difference to  the  serious  affairs  of  life,  there  was  one  subject 
which  had  for  Jim  the  greatest  interest  and  that  was  the  future 
life.  It  was  a  subject  he  considered  too  sacred  for  indiscrimi- 
nate discussion  and  he  never  talked  about  it  in  a  crowd.  When 
alone  with  some  one  whom  he  thought  could  appreciate  his  views, 
he  would  unbosom  himself. 

"You  see,"  said  he  to  me  one  evening,  "it's  this  way.  We 
don't  know  anything  about  it.  I  don't  believe  in  the  preacher's 
hell,  where  they  burn  you  in  brimstone,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
these  men  and  women  who  tip  tables  and  go  off  into  trances 
and  tell  you  the  future  is  the  very  reverse  of  what  the  preach- 


186 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

ers  say.  That  whipsaws  me,  of  course.  I  lose  both  ways  and 
I  end  where  I  started." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "why  don't  you  give  it  up  and  quit  thinking 
about  it?" 

"I  would,"  said  he,  "but  for  two  things.  One  happened  to 
me  and  the  other  happened  to  Jack." 

I  knew  there  was  a  good  story  coming  so  I  remained  silent. 

"What  happened  to  me  was  a  plenty,  too,  for  I  actually  died 
and  went  to  hell,  so  I  know  there  is  a  hell.  That  part's  settled 
in  my  mind,  almost.  You  are  too  young  to  more  than  barely 
remember  that  there  was  a  big  yellow  fever  epidemic  in  Houston 
in  1852.  It  was  a  hummer  and  as  it  was  the  first  one  since  1847 
when  so  many  people  died,  there  were  lots  of  newcomers  here 
who  had  never  had  the  fever  and  it  seemed  like  everybody  in 
town  was  down  with  it  and  either  dead  or  dying.  About  the 
fourth  or  fifth  week  it  got  me  and  I  grew  sicker  and  sicker  until 
finally  I  did  not  know  anything  at  all  until  suddenly  I  came  to 
my  senses  for  a  moment  and  realized  I  was  dying  sure  enough. 
The  next  thing  I  knew  I  was  dead  and  could  hear  my  women 
folks  crying  and  going  on.  Then  everything  became  black  and 
silent  and  when  I  came  to  I  was  in  a  great  big  hall  with  a  big 
throne  at  one  end  of  it.  The  hall  was  crowded,  but  there  was 
window  which  he  was  facing.  All  of  a  sudden  he  saw  Lige 
on  each  side  of  this  space  the  sheep  and  goats  were  lined  up. 
They  had  me  on  the  goat  side.  On  the  throne  was  a  big  man 
with  a  long  white  beard  who  had  a  long  shepherd's  crook  in  his 
hand.  He  looked  like  the  picture  of  Moses  I  had  seen,  so  I 
concluded  it  was  him.  Whoever  he  was,  he  had  full  charge 
and  went  on  sorting  the  sheep  and  goats  with  his  crook  as  fast 
as  they  came  in. 

"Now,  I  didn't  like  being  among  the  goats,  so  I  slipped  across 
among  the  sheep,  but  it  didn't  do  any  good,  for  I  scarcely  got 
across  when  Moses,  or  whoever  he  was,  reached  out  and  caught 
me  round  the  neck  with  his  crook  and  put  me  back  with  the 
goats.  I  tried  it  again,  but  he  roped  me  with  his  crook  without 
even  looking  around  at  me.  I  waited  a  moment  and  sneaked  over 
again.  This  time  he  caught  me  before  I  got  clean  over  and 
twisted  my  neck  when  he  shoved  me  back.  It  made  me  mad  and 
I  blurted  out,  'Damn  it,  sir;  don't  do  that.' 

"In  a  second  old  Moses  changed.  He  looked  vicious  and, 
instead  of  pushing  me  clear  back  among  the  goats,  he  gave 
his  crook  a  sudden  flirt  and  threw  me  clear  through  the  roof 
out  into  space.  I  thought  I  never  would  land  anywhere.  Finally 
I  saw  solid  earth  under  me  and  when  I  got  nearer  it  I  saw  a 
little  hole  in  the  ground  like  one  of  those  doodle  holes  the  boys 
stick  straws  in  and  catch  doodles.  I  was  heading  straight  for 
that  hole,  and  the  next  minute  I  hit  it,  head  on,  and  went  through 
like  a  flash.  The  squeeze  through  the  hole  broke  my  fall,  and 
the  next  moment  I  landed  safely  in  a  beautiful  garden.  It  was 
a  fine  place.  I  stood  up  and  looked  round.  There  were  horse 
races  going  on  and  big  crowds  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 187 

attending  them.  Right  out  under  the  trees  were  faro  banks, 
roulette  tables  and  every  kind  of  gambling,  and  everybody 
seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money.  There  were  beautiful  women 
and  elegantly  dressed  men,  and  waiters  passing  round  with  all 
kinds  of  drinks. 

"Finally  an  elegantly  dressed  gentleman,  wearing  a  stovepipe 
hat,  came  up  and,  calling  me  by  name,  welcomed  me  to  hell. 
'You  don't  tell  me  this  is  hell/  I  said.  'Yes,'  said  the  devil,  'this 
is  it;  how  do  you  like  it?' 

"  'God  Almighty,  man,'  said  I,  but  the  devil  popped  his  hand 
over  my  mouth  before  I  could  finish.  'Don't  use  that  name 
down  here,  Jim,'  he  said. 

"Then  he  took  me  everywhere  and  showed  me  what  a  fine  place 
he  had.  I  was  beginning  to  feel  thankful  to  old  Moses  for 
throwing  me  out  of  his  sorting  shop,  but  just  then  we  came  to 
a  big  flat  rock.  It  was  so  hot  it  looked  blue.  The  devil  did 
not  say  a  word,  but  I  knew  right  off  that  I  had  to  pull  my  shoes 
off  and  get  on  that  rock. 

'"Look  here,  old  man,'  I  said  to  the  devil;  'can't  we  cut  this 
part  of  the  performance  out?  You  know  what  a  good  friend  of 
yours  I've  been.' 

"  'Yes,  Jim,'  said  he.  'I  know  you  have  always  worked  for 
me  and  I  feel  grateful  to  you  for  it,  but  I  can't  help  you  now. 
It's  the  rule  and  nobody  can  break  a  rule  in  hell.  Why,  the 
whole  place  would  fall  to  pieces  if  I  broke  a  rule  or  allowed  one 
to  be  broken.' 

"I  saw  there  was  no  way  out  of  it,  so  I  pulled  off  my  shoes 
and  mounted  the  rock.  When  I  did  so  I  heard  my  mother  say, 
'Keep  rubbing.'  Then  I  came  to  and  found  that  the  women  were 
rubbing  my  hands  and  feet  with  pepper  and  mustard  to  keep 
up  circulation.  I  got  well,  but  could  not  handle  anything  or 
walk  for  a  week  or  two  because  of  blistered  hands  and  feet." 

"Now,  you  see,  I  know  all  about  hell,  because  I've  been  there 
and  have  seen  it.  The  other  thing  happened  to  Jack.  Jack  and 
Lige  McGowan  were  great  friends.  They  were  over  on  the  old 
White  Oak  bridge  one  moonlight  night  and  got  to  talking  about 
the  hereafter.  Jack  said  a  man  was  the  same  as  a  tree,  and 
that  when  he  was  dead  he  was  dead,  and  that  was  all  there  was 
about  it.  Lige  didn't  know  so  much  about  that.  So,  after  ar- 
guing awhile,  they  agreed  that  the  first  one  that  died  should 
come  back  to  the  survivor  and  tell  him  all  about  it,  or  as  much 
as  he  could.  They  shook  hands  over  the  agreement.  About 
a  month  after  that  Jack  had  been  dealing  faro  until  late.  The 
game  broke  up  about  3  o'clock  and  everybody  except  Jack  and 
another  man  went  home.  It  was  a  hot  summer  night  and  the 
moon  was  full.  Jack  and  the  other  man  concluded  to  lie  down 
on  a  big  table  and  sleep  there  instead  of  going  home.  Jack 
says  the  other  man  dropped  off  to  sleep  as  soon  as  he  lay  down, 
but  that  he  was  lying  there,  wide  awake,  looking  out  of  the  big 
window  which  he  was  facing.  All  on  a  sudden  he  saw  Lige 
McGowan  come  walking  across  Main  Street,  right  up  in  the  air. 


188 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Jack  grabbed  the  other  fellow  and  tried  to  wake  him,  but  could 
not  do  so.  Lige  walked  straight  to  the  window,  stepped  in, 
and,  hopping  down  on  the  floor,  came  right  up  to  Jack. 

"'Jack/  said  Lige,  'are  you  awake?  I've  come  to  tell  you 
there  is  a  hereafter,  though  it  is  not  as  good  nor  as  bad  as  you 
might  hope  for.  There  is  an  after  life  and  you  can  improve  it 
by  what  you  do  here.'  Saying  this,  Lige  vanished  and  then  the 
fellow  whom  Jack  was  pulling  on  all  the  time  waked  up.  Jack 
described  how  Lige  was  dressed  and  told  the  whole  story.  He 
said  Lige  had  on  a  big  blue  military  coat,  with  brass  buttons 
down  the  front. 

"The  next  day  we  hunted  for  Lige,  but  no  one  knew  where  he 
was.  Two  or  three  days  later  a  man  came  in  from  the  Brazos 
and  brought  news  that  Lige  had  died  out  there.  The  strange 
thing  was  that  Lige  had  shown  up  at  a  house  crazy  with  fever 
and  had  lost  nearly  all  his  clothes  in  some  way.  When  they  got 
ready  to  bury  him  the  only  thing  they  had  to  put  on  him  wass 
an  old  blue  military  coat  with  brass  buttons,  the  same  as  he 
wore  when  he  came  to  see  Jack. 

"When  Jack  heard  about  the  coat  he  knew  he  had  seen  Lige 
and  I  had  hard  work  keeping  him  from  going  right  off  and  join- 
ing the  church.  We  had  a  big  game  and  were  making  lots  of 
money,  and  if  Jack  had  joined  the  church  it  would  have  ruined 
us." 

Poor  old  Jim,  and  Jack,  too,  have  long  ago  turned  over  theii 
boxes  and  cashed  all  chips,  but  when  they  quit  the  game  for 
good  they  took  with  them  the  respect  of  all  who  knew  them, 
for  they  died  as  they  lived,  "square  men." 


NEGRO   CRAP  SHOOTERS, 

A  FACT  that  demands  investigation  and  explanation  at  the 
hands  of  the  scientists  is  the  mortal  terror  inspired  in 
the  breast  of  the  negro  crap  shooter  by  the  appearance 
of  a  policeman.  If  there  was  a  death  penalty  attached  to  crap 
shooting  there  might  be  a  possible  explanation,  but  there  is 
only  a  light  fine  and  a  possible  detention  in  the  lockup  for  a 
few  hours.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this  when  a  party  of  negroes  are 
caught  "rollin'  the  bones"  by  the  police  there  is  nothing  short 
of  the  indestructible  being  in  their  way  that  is  going  to  keep 
them  from  trying  to  get  away.  They  will  take  the  most  mar- 
velous chances,  involving  loss  of  life  and  limb,  and  they  think 
no  more  of  leaping  out  of  a  third  story  window  than  they  do  of 
going  out  of  a  convenient  door  on  the  first  floor. 

It  is  just  as  impossible  to  keep  a  negro  from  playing  craps 
as  it  is  to  keep  a  section  hand  from  getting  drunk  on  pay  day. 
They  will  play  in  spite  of  everything  or  anything  and  no  one 
can  stop  them.  Some  years  ago  the  police  of  San  Antonio, 
according  to  a  story  told  me  by  an  ex-policeman,  made  a  rather 
neat  thing  out  of  the  negro  gamblers  in  the  following  way:  On 
Saturday  evenings  the  negroes  would  seek  secluded  places  along 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 189 

the  river  banks  and  indulge  in  their  favorite  pastime.  The 
policeman  would  mark  them  down  and  concealing  himself,  wait 
Until  the  game  became  exciting.  Then,  at  a  critical  moment, 
when  the  negroes  had  their  money  all  spread  out  on  the  ground, 
he  would  suddenly  show  himself,  fire  his  pistol  in  the  air  and  the 
next  moment  he  would  be  left  absolutely  alone  in  possession  of 
the  field.  He  told  me  he  had  frequently  picked  up  fourteen  or 
fifteen  dollars  in  dimes,  quarters  and  larger  coins  abandoned 
by  the  negroes  when  they  fled.  Of  course  he  made  no  effort  to 
stop  any  of  them,  for  the  sooner  they  got  out  of  sight  the  better 
pleased  he  was. 

It  really  seems  that  it  needs  the  "rattle  of  the  bones"  to  bring 
out  the  queer  side  of  the  negro's  nature.  They  will  do  the 
most  absurd  and  senseless  things  imaginable  when  under  the 
exciting  influence  of  gambling.  Not  long  ago  I  was  talking 
with  Horace  Baker,  the  big  deputy  sheriff  who  has  had  long  ex- 
perience with  negroes,  as  everybody  knows,  and  he  told  me  an 
amusing  story. 

-  "I  was  coming  up  town,"  he  said,  "and  when  I  got  to  a  point 
below  Harrisburg,  not  far  from  the  bayou,  a  black  negro  who 
knew  me  came  out  in  the  road  and  told  me  a  tale  of  woe.  You 
know  we  catch  the  negro  crap  shooters  nine  times  out  of  ten 
through  some  negro  squealing.  This  was  one  of  the  times,  for 
the  negro  told  me  that  a  gang  of  negroes  was  down  on  the  bank 
of  the  bayou  playing  craps  and  that  they  had  got  him  in  the 
game  and  robbed  him  of  all  his  wife's  money.  I  saw  through 
the  thing  at  once.  He  had  lost  his  money  and  wanted  me  to 
pinch  the  crowd  and  get  it  back  for  him. 

"That's  the  game.  So  long  as  they  win  the  game  is  fair  and 
the  money  belongs  to  them,  but  when  they  lose  the  game  is 
crooked  and  the  money,  they  say,  was  their  wives.'  I  got  down 
off  my  horse  and  followed  him.  When  we  got  near  enough,  I 
hid  behind  a  clump  of  bushes  and  watched  them  for  a  while. 
There  were  six  playing  and  one  little,  black,  bullet-headed  fellow 
was  looking  on.  He  was  taking  no  part  in  the  game,  and  the 
negro  who  had  stopped  me  told  me  the  little  fellow  had  not 
played  at  all.  After  watching  them  for  a  little  while  I  stood  up 
and  started  toward  them.  Then  the  fun  commenced.  Two  of 
them  had  their  backs  to  me,  but  one  of  the  others  saw  me  and 
gave  the  alarm.  The  two  on  my  side  did  not  even  look  around 
but  made  a  dive  forward,  knocking  over  everything  and  every- 
body in  front  of  them  and  broke  down  the  bayou  bank  like 
quarter  horses.  The  three  that  were  knocked  down  got  up  and 
scattered,  but  the  fourth  one,  a  big  negro  with  an  old-fashioned 
wooden  leg  like  a  broomstick,  jumped  off  the  high  bank  and 
landed  on  a  pile  of  clay  the  dredgeboat  had  scooped  out  of  the 
bayou.  When  he  came  down,  instead  of  landing  on  his  good 
leg,  he  landed  on  his  peg.  That  went  into  the  clay  and  an- 
chored him  as  firmly  as  a  piledriver  could  have  anchored  a  post. 
I  knew  I  had  him,  so  paid  no  further  attention  to  him. 


190 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"Now,  you  would  suppose  that  the  little  bullet-headed  negro, 
who  had  been  merely  looking  on  and  who  had  not  been  gambling 
at  all,  would  have  made  no  effort  to  escape,  but  he  was  the 
worst  frightened  of  all  of  them.  When  he  caught  sight  of  me, 
he  let  out  a  yell  like  a  frightened  woman  and  tore  down  the 
bank  and  plunged  in  the  bayou.  I  saw  I  could  not  get  him  ,and 
as  I  did  not  want  him  particularly,  I  turned  my  attention  to 
the  others.  I  heard  the  anchored  negro  puffing  and  blowing 
and  on  looking  down  I  found  he  was  busy  trying  to  unstrap  his 
wooden  leg,  so  he  could  leave  it  there  and  roll  off  into  the  bayou. 
He  was  determined  to  get  away,  so  I  thought  I  had  best  take 
him  in  charge.  I  crawled  down  to  where  he  was  anchored  and 
when  I  got  there  I  took  a  look  for  the  negro  who  had  jumped 
in  the  bayou.  I  knew  he  had  not  had  time  to  swim  half  way 
over  the  bayou,  but  he  was  nowhere  in  sight.  I  could  see  along 
the  bank  on  my  side,  but  there  was  not  a  sign  of  him.  Finally 
I  concluded  he  had  gone  under  and  been  drowned.  I  got  my 
one-legged  chap  out  and  took 'him  up  the  bank  and  was  about 
to  leave  him,  when  I  noticed  a  good  sized  piece  of  plank  floating 
along  in  the  bayou  and  something  peculiar  about  it  attracted 
my  attention.  I  watched  it  closely  and  then  thought  I  could 
see  a  kind  of  bump  at  one  end.  I  walked  down  the  bank  where 
I  could  get  a  better  view  and  then  I  saw  what  it  was.  The 
negro  had  sunk  his  whole  body,  leaving  only  his  mouth  and  nose 
sticking  slightly  out  of  the  water  and  was  floating  along  quietly 
with  the  board,  waiting  for  me  to  leave.  I  told  my  one-legged 
man  that  I  thought  there  was  a  turtle  on  the  board  and  that  1 
was  going  to  kill  it.  I  said  that  to  scare  the  negro,  but  his  ears 
being  under  water  he  did  not  hear  me.  Then  I  took  careful 
aim  at  the  far  end  of  the  board  and  cut  down  with  my  six- 
shooter.  No  harpooned  whale  or  sea  monster  ever  cut  up  worse 
than  that  negro  did.  He  fairly  rose  out  of  the  water,  yell- 
ing like  a  crazy  man.  It  scared  me  badly,  for  I  thought  that 
I  had  hit  him  and  I  would  not  have  done  that  for  anything.  He 
commenced  yelling:  'I  give  up,  Mr.  Baker!  I  give  up,  Mr. 
Baker!'  I  ordered  him  to  come  to  shore  and  was  much  relieved 
to  find  that  he  was  unharmed.  I  took  the  two  to  Harrisburg 
and  turned  them  over  to  the  constable  there,  and  came  on  to 
town.  I  was  more  amused  than  proud  for  all  I  had  done  was 
to  capture  a  one-legged  negro  who  actually  caught  himself  by 
bogging  down,  and  capture  a  negro  who  had  done  nothing  to  be 
captured  for." 

*  *  * 

HUNTER    MYER 

I   HAVE  told  of  the  boy  hunters  of  Houston  and  of  what  fun 
we  used  to  have  chasing  rabbits,  shooting  birds  and  roam- 
ing over  the  prairies   and  woods   which   are  now  thickly 
settled  portions  of  the  City  of  Houston,  and  now  I  am  going  to 
tell  of  a  sure  enough  hunter  one,  whose  exploits  in  that  line 
equaled  those  of  any  of  the  great  hunters  of  this  country. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 191 

In  the  late  40's  there  came  to  Houston  a  gentleman  who  was 
apparently  in  the  advanced  stages  of  consumption.  He  was  tall, 
being  over  six  feet,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow.  He  was  a  man 
of  family  and  had  but  little  of  this  world's  goods.  The  doctors 
told  him  that  he  must  not  seek  employment  that  would  keep  him 
indoors  or  be  in  any  way  confining;  that  he  must  go  somewhere 
where  he  could  be  in  the  open  air  and  get  all  the  sunshine  pos- 
sible. The  advice  was  the  proper  thing  and  it  was  easy  enough 
for  the  doctors  to  give,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  for  Mr.  T.  B. 
Myer,  the  gentleman  himself,  to  follow,  since  its  adoption  meant 
the  starvation  of  his  family  while  he  was  attempting  to  get  well. 
He  thought  it  all  over  and  then  concluded  that  there  was  but 
one  way  in  which  he  could  follow  the  doctor's  advice  and  at  the 
same  time  support  his  family,  and  that  was  by  becoming  a  pro- 
fessional hunter. 

Having  formulated  this  plan,  he  set  about  putting  it  in  prac- 
tical operation.  Among  his  friends  was  a  San  Jacinto  veteran, 
a  Mr.  Arnold,  who  gave  him  a  long  rifle  which  he  had  used  in 
the  battle  of  San  Jacinto.  Every  school  boy  raised  in  Houston 
remembers  the  long  rifle,  which  was  as  well  known  as  "Hunter" 
Myer.  It  was  very  long  and  very  heavy  and  we  boys  used  to 
wonder  how  anybody  could  ever  handle  it  at  all.  Having  prob- 
ably done  some  execution  among  the  Mexicans  at  San  Jacinto, 
it  was  destined  to  do  much  greater  among  the  deer,  turkeys  and 
other  game  near  Houston.  Hunter  Myer  used  this  rifle  for  over 
a  quarter  of  a  century  and  when  too  old  and  infirm  to  hunt  longer 
he  gave  it  to  Tom  Padgitt,  then  a  Houston  boy,  but  now  one 
of  the  leading  merchants  of  Waco,  who  still  has  it. 

Hunter  Myer  was  a  remarkable  man  in  many  respects.  He 
was  over  six  feet  high,  did  not  have  an  ounce  of  fat  on  his  body 
and  was  nothing  but  bone,  sinew  and  muscles.  He  was  a  pow- 
erful man  and  had  a  grip  like  a  vise.  One  of  the  most  vivid 
remembrances  I  have  of  him  was  seeing  him  one  day  scare  a 
little  Jew  almost  to  death.  The  Jew  kept  a  store  on  or  near 
the  corner  of  Preston  Avenue  and  Milam  Street  and  had  done 
something  that  angered  Hunter  Myer  and  he  had  gone  to  the 
Jew's  store  evidently  with  the  intention  of  chastizing  him. 
When  he  got  there  and  the  Jew  realized  that  Hunter  Myer  was 
after  him  his  terror  was  so  evident  and  his  attitude  so  'groveling 
that  Mr.  Myer  changed  his  mind  about  giving  him  a  whipping 
and  concluded  to  give  him  a  good  scare  instead.  He  suddenly 
reached  over  the  counter  and  catching  the  Jew  by  the  back 
of  his  coat  lifted  him  bodily  over  the  counter  as  easily  as  if  it 
had  been  an  infant  he  was  handling.  Then  catching  him  by 
the  collar  of  his  coat  he  bore  him,  shrieking,  to  the  sidewalk. 
There  holding  him  out  at  arms'  length  he  quietly  pulled  out  his 
long  hunting  knife  and  pretended  to  be  searching  among  the 
Jew's  ribs  for  a  soft  place  to  shove  the  point  of  the  knife  in. 
Sheriff  Hogan,  who  lived  across  the  street  on  Milam  Street,  heard 
the  shrieks  of  the  little  fellow  and  concluding  that  some  one 
was  being  murdered,  came  on  a  run. 


192 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

But  Mr.  Myer  winked  at  him  and  lie  saw  it  was  only  fun,  so 
did  not  interfere. 

The  Jew  did  not  see  anything  but  the  big  knife  and  all  he 
heard  was  the  grit  and  grind  of  Mr.  Myer's  teeth,  who  pretended 
to  be  fairly  crazy  with  anger.  He  would  lower  the  little  fellow 
to  the  ground  as  though  he  was  going  to  let  him  go  and  then 
changing  his  mind  he  would  elevate  him  again  and  begin  search- 
ing with  the  point  of  his  knife  fresh  places  in  the  Jew's  side. 
The  Jew's  shrieks  and  prayers  for  mercy  were  pitiful.  Finally 
Mr.  Myer  released  his  grip  sufficiently  to  allow  the  Jew  to  es- 
cape, which  he  did  very  promptly,  going  toward  Main  Street  and 
leaving  all  his  earthly  possessions  behind  him.  He  was  thank- 
ful to  escape  with  his  life. 

All  that  took  place  after  Hunter  Myer  had  regained  his  health 
and  after  he  had  made  name  and  fame  as  a  mighty  hunter. 

His  hunting  outfit  was  simple — a  little  two-wheel  wagon  with 
a  canvas  cover,  drawn  by  a  single  horse.  This  horse  was  trained 
and  was  of  great  assistance  to  him  while  out  on  his  hunts. 

As  there  were  no  such  things  as  cold  storage  and  ice  in  those 
days,  Mr.  Myer  had  to  get  his  game  to  town  as  soon  after  killing 
it  as  possible.  Hence  he  could  not  go  very  far  off  to  hunt.  His 
favorite  hunting  grounds  were  up  Buffalo  Bayou,  the  head  of 
Clear  Creek,  Chocolate  Bayou,  Austin  Bayou,  San  Jacinto  bot- 
tom and  other  nearby  points,  none  of  them  more  than  12  or  15 
miles  from  Houston.  An  idea  of  the  abundance  of  game  near 
Houston  at  that  time  may  be  found  from  the  statement  that 
when  Hunter  Myer  died  in  1880  he  was  credited  with  having 
killed,  within  20  miles  of  Houston,  over  11,000  deer,  and  turkeys 
and  other  game  too  numerous  to  mention,  all  of  which  he  sold 
in  Houston.  He  was  a  quiet  and  peaceful  man,  slow  to  anger, 
but  when  once  aroused  it  was  well  to  keep  out  of  his  way,  for 
he  became  terrible.  He  was  absolutely  honest  and  fair  in  all 
his  dealings  and  he  demanded  and  saw,  too,  that  all  with  whom 
he  came  in  contact  accorded  him  the  same  treatment.  He  played 
no  favorites  in  disposing  of  his  game  and  unless  some  one  of  his 
customers  had  spoken  in  advance  for  a  part  or  the  whole  of  a 
deer  or  for  other  game,  he  sold  everything  in  the  open  market — 
first  come,  first  served  kind  of  way.  He  would  come  down  Main 
Street,  if  he  had  been  hunting  out  that  way,  and  often  before 
he  had  reached  Preston  Avenue  he  would  be  sold  out,  for  a  sight 
of  his  little  wagon  jogging  down  the  street  was  notice  enough 
for  the  people  living  on  Main  Street  that  they  could  get  venison 
or  other  game.  He  never  had  the  least  trouble  in  selling  all  the 
game  he  could  kill. 

For  a  few  years  before  he  died  he  was  forced  to  give  up 
hunting  by  the  infirmities  of  old  age,  but  he  had  accumulated 
enough  of  the  world's  goods  to  live  in  quiet  and  ease  and  his 
last  days  were  quiet  and  peaceful.  He  died  in  1880,  honored  and 
respected  by  the  whole  community. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 193 

COL.  GEO.  BAYLOR. 

THE  other  morning  I  woke  up  thinking  about  the  old 
Indian  trading  post  that  was  formerly  located  down  at 
the  foot  of  Preston  Avenue.  From  the  old  post  my  mind 
wandered  off  to  Indians  in  general  and  I  remembered  a  story 
about  them  that  my  friend,  Colonel  George  Baylor,  once  told 
me.  It  is  a  good  story,  too.  His  brother,  General  John  R. 
Baylor,  was  governor  of  New  Mexico  and  Arizona,  and  had  the 
Indians  pretty  well  in  hand,  particularly  those  he  had  on  the 
reservation  he  had  established  where  he  made  his  headquarters. 
Colonel  Baylor  was  temporarily  with  his  brother.  The  two 
brothers  had  a  negro  servant  with  them,  who  was  afraid  as 
death  of  the  Indians  at  first,  until  he  found  that  they  would 
not  molest  him,  and  then,  nigger-like,  he  got  to  showing  off 
before  them  and  resenting  their  calling  him  "Buffalo,"  which 
they  did  because  his  head  was  kinky  like  the  head  of  a  buffalo. 
Before  long  the  negro  got  it  in  his  head  that  there  was  no  harm 
in  an  Indian  and  that  "Marse  John  had  done  subdued  'em." 
Then  he  took  advantage  of  the  situation  and  began  to  run  off 
and  spend  days  in  the  woods,  for  he  was  one  of  the  "runaway" 
kind  of  negroes.  Both  General  Baylor  and  Colonel  Baylor 
warned  him  that  he  was  likely  to  be  caught  by  some  Indians 
who  did  not  know  him  and  that  if  that  happened  he  would  be 
a  gone  coon.  He  said  nothing,  but  he  evidently  thought  their 
warning  was  simply  to  try  to  scare  him  and  paid  no  attention 
to  it. 

Finally  he  ran  away  and  was  gone  for  several  days.  General 
Baylor  concluded  to  give  him  a  lesson  that  would  cure  him  for 
all  time.  He  called  one  or  two  chiefs  in  his  office  and  asked 
them  to  take  a  body  of  their  followers,  go  out  and  catch  the 
negro  and  give  him  a  good  scare.  The  Indians  were  tickled  to 
death  at  the  idea  of  having  such  fun  and  entered  into  the  scheme 
eagerly.  They  put  on  their  war  paint,  armed  themselves  with 
their  knives  and  tomahawks  and  set  out  to  find  the  negro.  They 
caught  him,  about  five  miles  away,  asleep  under  a  tree.  They 
tied  and  gagged  him  and  then  held  a  big  war  dance  all  around 
and  over  him.  He  was  scared  half  to  death  before  they  got 
half  through  their  dance,  but  his  fear  was  as  nothing  compared 
to  that  he  felt  when  they  jerked  him  to  his  feet  and  bound  him 
to  a  tree  with  a  rope.  They  whoope*d  and  danced  and  began 
piling  leaves  and  brush  over  him,  as  though  they  were  preparing 
to  burn  him.  When  they  stood  him  against  the  tree  they  took 
the  ropes  from  his  legs  and  merely  had  one  rope  around  his 
neck  to  hold  him  to  the  tree.  He  could  kick  all  he  pleased 
and  he  did  a  lot  of  it,  trying  to  keep  them  from  piling  the  brush 
and  leaves  on  him. 

Then  the  chiefs  changed  the  program.  They  got  their  young 
men  to  form  a  line  and  throw  tomahawks  at  the  negro,  the  ob- 
ject being  to  see  who  could  come  nearest  his  head  without  hitting 
him.  Finally,  when  they  had  him  about  dead  with  fright,  one  of 
the  Indians,  intentionally,  threw  a  tomahawk  and  cut  the  rope 


194 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

that  bound  the  negro  to  the  tree.  He  realized  that  he  was  free 
and  bolted.  The  Indians  let  him  get  a  good  start  and  then, 
raising  awful  whoops  and  yells,  they  took  after  him.  He  made 
a  bee-line  for  home  with  what  he  thought  was  a  whole  tribe 
of  bloodthirsty  Indians  at  his  heels. 

Colonel  Baylor  said  they  could  hear  the  Indians  yelling  for 
two  miles  away  and  they  knew  they  had  the  negro  headed  for 
home.  He  says  when  the  negro  finally  showed  up  his  eyes  were 
popped  out  and  twisted  so  that  they  were  back  of  his  head.  The 
negro  tore  through  the  camp  and  made  for  a  little  shanty  he 
occupied.  He  rushed  in  and  slammed  the  door,  which  was  im- 
mediately broken  open  by  the  Indians,  who  rushed  in  on  him. 

Then  the  fun  commenced  in  earnest.  The  negro  became  per- 
fectly frantic  with  fear  and  fought  like  a  fiend.  An  Indian 
knows  nothing  about  fighting  with  his  fists,  so  the  negro  had 
everything  his  own  way.  The  colonel  says  the  Indians  were 
knocked  here  and  there  and  pummeled  terribly,  but  took  every- 
thing good  naturedly.  -They  did  not  get  the  least  angry  but 
fought  on  until  the  shanty  was  wrecked  and  fell  down  on  the 
combatants.  Then  the  negro,  finding  himself  in  the  open  air 
once  more,  got  on  his  feet  and  knocking  Indians  right  and  left 
cleared  a  passage  and  made  for  the  river,  half  a  mile  away. 
When  he  reached  the  river  he  dived  off  a  high  embankment, 
where  there  was  a  big  whirlpool,  and  came  near  drowning  before 
some  Mexicans  roped  him  and  pulled  him  safely  to  shore. 

The  colonel  said  there  were  at  least  a  dozen  Indians  with 
black  eyes  and  bloody  noses,  but  not  an  angry  Indian  in  the 
whole  bunch.  They  seemed  to  have  enjoyed  every  moment  of 
the  chase. 

So  far  as  the  negro  was  concerned,  he  was  cured  and  could 
scarcely  be  induced  to  go  near  an  Indian  in  the  camp,  to  say 
nothing  of  going  out  in  the  woods,  which  he  feared  was  full 
of  them. 

During  that  conversation,  the  colonel  told  me  another  inter- 
esting story  about  a  fight  he  had  with  the  Comanche  Indians 
when  he  was  captain  of  a  ranger  company.  He  said  he  was 
certain  that  he  had  killed  the  last  ComancTie  Indian  killed  in 
Texas.  His  company  had  had  a  fight  with  a  band  of  them  and 
was  following  them.  He  had  a  very  fast  horse  and  got  far 
ahead  of  his  men,  following  three  Indians.  The  trail  they  were 
on  dipped  down  into  a  dry  gully  and  when  he  saw  that  the  In- 
dians did  not  ride  out  on  the  other  side,  he  said  he  knew  what 
they  were  doing  just  the  same  as  though  he  could  see  them. 
They  had  gotten  on  one  side  of  the  trail  and  intended  shooting 
him  as  he  rode  down  the  gully.  Instead  of  doing  that  he  turned 
to  one  side  and  came  up  behind  them.  They  were  close  together, 
ready  to  shoot  him  the  moment  he  appeared.  He  got  right  close 
to  them  and  fired  both  barrels  of  his  shotgun,  loaded  with  buck- 
shot, killing  all  three  of  them.  The  others  of  the  gang  got  away, 
but  that  was  the  last  raid  the  Comanches  ever  made,  therefore 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 195 

Colonel  Baylor  says  he  is  certain  that  he  killed  the  last  of  the 
tribe  that  was  killed  in  Texas. 

*  *  * 

MAKING   A   BEGGAR. 

SEEING  the  street  beggars  the  other  day  reminded  me  that 
I  have  on  my  conscience  the  crime  of  having  inflicted  on 
the  community  one  of  these  gentry.  My  doing  so  made  me 
very  unpopular  with  the  public  also.     I  have  often  thought  how 
very  easy  the  people  were  to  be  taken  in  by  the  fraud  I  helped 
to  create.     Instead  of  being  allowed  to  impose  on  the  public  he 
should  have  been  arrested  by  the  police,  furnished  with  a  wooden 
leg  and  put  to  work. 

He  had  absolutely  no  excuse  for  being  a  burden  on  the  public, 
but  he  was  one  and  a  very  successful  one,  too.  His  history  1» 
somewhat  amusing  as  well  as  instructive,  so  I  will  give  it  here. 

Soon  after  I  had  graduated  in  medicine  and  while  I  was  eager 
to  show  my  skill  as  a  .surgeon  there  came  to  Houston  a  big 
negro  from  somewhere  up  the  state. 

He  was  the  most  trifling  specimen  of  humanity  I  ever  saw, 
though  I  must  say  he  was  smart,  in  a  tricky  kind  of  way.  He 
but  he  was  one  and  a  very  successful  one,  too.  His  history  is 
being  stiff  he  could  not  navigate  well.  He  used  crutches  and 
got  about  very  well,  except  that  his  leg,  which  stuck  out  like  a 
rudder  interfered  wtih  his  movements  somewhat. 

About  a  month  after  he  arrived  in  Houston  he  was  taken  sick 
with  fever  and  was  sent  to  the  hospital  by  the  city  authorities. 
After  he  got  well  Dr.  Connell  and  I  persuaded  him  to  let  us 
take  his  leg  off.  We  had  to  use  strong  arguments  with  him, 
but  finally  overcame  his  objections.  The  operation  was  "a  beau- 
tiful one"  from  our  point  of  view  and  resulted  in  making  his 
fortune. 

We  had  told  him  that  after  his  leg  was  off  he  could  get  a 
wooden  one  and  then  could  get  all  the  work  he  wanted.  That 
was  just  exactly  the  thing  he  did  not  want.  He  had  higher 
finance  in  view  than  the  paltry  sums  he  could  accumulate  with 
a  wooden  leg  and  work.  So  soon  as  we  discharged  him  from  the 
hospital  he  took  to  a  sunny  side  of  the  street  and  became  a  pro- 
fessional beggar,  just  as  hundreds  have  done  since  his  day. 

He  had  the  most  deceptive  face  I  ever  saw.  He  could  put  on 
an  expression  of  woe  begoneness  that  would  pull  dimes  out  of 
the  pockets  of  skinflints.  His  voice  was  plaintive  and  many 
gave  to  him  feeling  that  they  were  doing  a  real  charity,  whereas 
they  were  only  helping  to  foster  a  fraud. 

He  always  pulled  off  his  hat  and  bowed  low  whenever  Dr. 
Connell  or  I  passed  him,  though  he  never  had  the  gall  to  ask 
us  for  a  donation.  He  looked  on  us  as  his  benefactors,  for  he 
knew  we  had  set  him  up  in  a  lucrative  business. 

Had  he  saved  his  money  and  invested  it  he  might  have  become 
a  wealthy  man.  All  great  men  have  some  pet  weakness,  how- 
ever, and  our  great  one  loved  whiskey  too  well.  For  a  year  or 


196 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

two  he  never  drank  while  on  duty,  but  then,  growing  bold  be- 
cause of  his  great  prosperity,  he  kept  a  little  flask  in  his  pocket 
and  took  sly  sips  from  it. 

That  upset  his  judgment  and  he  became  saucy  and  irritable,  so 
much  so  that  the  public  lost  confidence  in  him  and  began  to 
look  on  him  as  a  nuisance  rather  than  as  an  object  of  charity. 
All  of  which  was  fatal. 

One  day  he  took  too  many  drinks,  got  drunk  and  abused  some 
white  ladies  who  had  refused  to  give  him  anything.  They  com- 
plained to  the  police  and  he  was  arrested  and  locked  up.  Then 
the  unlocked  for  and  unsuspected  happened. 

So  soon  as  the  news  of  his  arrest  spread  among  his  friends, 
negro  women  began  to  arrive  at  the  city  jail  to  find  out  why 
their  husband  had  been  locked  up.  Wife  after  wife  came  and 
before  long  there  were  six  wives  anxious  to  get  him  out  of  jail. 
Each  one  asserted  that  she  had  "done  been  had  dat  man  for 
two  years." 

An  investigation  revealed  the  fact  that  he  had  old  Brigham 
Young  "skinned  to  a  finish."  They  were  only  negro  marriages, 
however,  for  no  preacher  or  justice  of  the  peace  had  officiated 
at  any  of  them.  Several  of  the  wives  fought  among  themselves 
and  were  locked  up  also.  Then  the  recorder's  court  took  a  hand. 

The  man  was  fined  and  given  a  jail  sentence.  He  promptly 
paid  his  fine  .and  left  the  city.  He  went  to  Galveston,  but  was 
run  out  at  once  by  the  police  there  and  I  have  never  seen  nor 
heard  of  him  since. 

*  *  * 

A   HEARSE,  A  BOY  AND  A  BUM. 

ONCE  or  twice  I  have  spoken  of  Old  Man  Pannell,  the  "old 
man"  being  used  as  a  term  of  affection,  for  everybody 
loved  him.  He  was  one  of  the  characters  of  the  early 
days;  was  the  only  undertaker,  or  as  it  was  called  then,  "sex- 
ton," here,  and  no  self-respecting  citizen  felt  that  he  was  prop- 
erly buried  unless  the  old  man  had  done  the  job. 

Mr.  Pannell  was  full  of  fun  and  enjoyed  a  joke  as  well  as 
the  next  man,  but  he  concealed  the  fact  as  much  as  possible, 
put  on  a  woebegone  expression  to  accord  with  his  calling  and, 
before  his  death,  had  become  the  typical  professional  burier. 

From  time  to  time  his  love  for  fun  would  crop  out,  but  he 
never  permitted  such  a  breach  of  ethics  while  on  duty.  A  pauper 
was  buried  in  Potters  Field  with  as  much  solemnity  as  was  the 
merchant  in  the  great  cemetery.  Of  course  the  pauper  did  not 
ride  in  the  fine  hearse. 

Mr.  Pannell  had  an  old  fashioned  black  hearse  drawn  by  a 
little  gray  mare,  which  was  used  for  second  and  third  class 
funerals.  He  insisted,  however,  on  having  order  and  dignity 
and-  the  little-  gray  mare  walked  as  quietly  to  and  from  the  ceme- 
tery in  front  of  the  little  black  hearse  with  no  carriages  fol- 
lowing, as  did  the  black  steeds  drawing  the  grand  hearse  at 
the  head  of  a  procession  of  carriages  and  buggies. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 197 

As  I  say,  Mr.  Pannell  had  the  old  black  hearse,  and  the  little 
gray  mare  and  he  had  something  more.  He  had  a  boy  whom  he 
had  raised,  named  Rick  Nolan.  Rick  was  a  typical  boy,  thought- 
less, hair-brained  and  ready  to  engage  in  anything  that  gave 
promise  of  fun,  as  all  real  boys  are.  Rick  was  placed  in  com- 
mand of  the  pauper  hearse  and  the  little  gray  mare,  and  he  had 
not  officiated  at  many  "plantings"  before  he  discovered  that  the 
little  gray  mare  should  have  been  on  a  race  track  rather  than 
before  a  hearse. 

Potters  Field  was  then  located  on  the  banks  of  the  bayou 
beyond  the  San  Felipe  graveyard,  and  as  that  was  away  out  in 
the  country  the  San  Felipe  Road  gave  Rick  as  fine  a  race  track 
for  developing  the  speed  of  his  gray  mare  as  the  heart  could 
wish  for.  He  would  go  out  quietly  enough  but  would  come  back 
at  a  2:40  clip,  racing  everything  in  sight  until  he  reached  Main 
Street,  when  he  would  slow  down  and  creep  along  as  quiet  as  a 
mouse. 

Rick  might  have  continued  his  sport  indefinitely  but  for  an 
accident.  During  the  fall  of  1866  a  tough  and  wild-looking  old 
"bum"  and  the  cholera  struck  Houston.  The  bum  might  have 
remained  in  obscurity,  but  not  so  the  cholera.  It  was  something 
new. 

The  people  knew  all  about  yellow  fever  and  after  the  first 
panic  among  the  tenderfeet,  the  .situation  was  accepted  and 
everything  ran  along  as  usual.  They  knew  nothing  of  cholera, 
however,  and  its  advent  produced  a  genuine  and  lasting  panic. 
Every  man  was  afraid  of  his  neighbor  and  friend  whom  he  re- 
garded as  the  carrier  of  the  fatal  germs.  Stories  of  miraculous 
cures,  of  apparently  well  men  falling  dead,  of  apparently  dead 
men  coming  to  life,  and  all  such  things,  became  current  and 
everybody  believed  them. 

Now  just  when  this  nervous  tension  was  greatest  Rick  was 
called  on  to  bury  a  negro  out  in  the  Potters  Field.  He  per- 
formed his  duty  and  started  back.  Just  as  he  reached  San 
Felipe  Road  he  encountered  the  bum  mentioned  above.  The 
bum  asked  for  a  ride  to  town,  but  as  that  was  almost  a  capital 
offense  in  Mr.  Pennell's  eyes,  Rick  wisely  refused. 

Then  the  bum  offered  him  ten 'cents  to  take  him  to  town.  Rick 
was  tempted  and  fell,  but  he  insisted  that  the  bum  get  inside 
the  hearse  and  lie  down  so  no  one  could  see  him,  and  that  he 
get  out  when  Main  Street  was  reached.  The  bum  agreed  and 
got  in.  Rick  drove  along  quietly  until  within  a  few  blocks  of 
Main  Street. 

Then  he  concluded  to  give  his  passenger  a  touch  of  high  life. 
He  gathered  up  his  reins  and  hit  the  mare  a  sharp  lash  with  the 
whip.  That  settled  it  and  in  a  moment  Rick  realized  that  he 
had  overplayed  his  hand.  The  mare  took  the  bit  between  her 
teeth  and  bolted. 

Main  Street  was  reached  in  a  jiffy  and  people  along  that  high- 
way were  horrified  to  see  an  apparently  crazy  mare  dashing 
toward  town,  having  in  tow  a  dilapidated  hearse  containing  a 


198 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"dead"  man  who  was  making  frantic  efforts  to  escape.  The  door 
of  the  hearse  was  latched  on  the  outside  so  the  bum  could  not 
open  it,  but  he  was  doing  his  best  to  do  so. 

Everybody  who  saw  the  thing  concluded  that  the  hearse  panic 
was  due  entirely  to  the  revival  of  the  dead  man  and  that  Rick 
was  trying  to  get  away  in  his  terror. 

Down  Main  Street  the  frightful  rush  came.  When  a  point  was 
reached  about  half  way  between  Texas  Avenue  and  Prairie,  the 
tramp  in  desperation,  kicked  the  door  open  and  tumbled  out, 
doing  some  excellent  grand  and  lofty  tumbling  after  striking  the 
ground.  He  picked  himself  up  and  started  for  the  sidewalk, 
but  his  appearance  had  inaugurated  a  new  and  genuine  panic. 

Everybody  fled  from  him.  People  rushed  into  shops  and  stores 
and  barricaded  the  doors.  Saloons  were  closed  and  he  could 
not  get  within  a  hundred  yards  of  those  who  failed  to  get  in  a 
place  of  safety. 

Being  daylight,  the  ghost  element  was  lacking,  but  the  bum 
was  regarded  as  a  dead  cholera  victim  and  therefore  as  a  perfect 
walking  magazine  of  cholera  germs.  Some  even  went  so  far 
as  to  want  to  shoot  him  and  have  Nolan  take  him  back  and 
bury  him  sure  enough. 

Finally  the  truth  leaked  out.  Nolan  was  fired  by  Mr.  Pannell 
and  the  people  were  so  relieved  to  find  that  the  bum  was  not 
what  they  thought  he  was  that  everybody  joined  in  the  laugh. 


BURIED  TREASURES. 

WHEN  I  was  a  small  boy  I  had  an  ambition,  shared 
largely  by  other  boys  of  my  age,  to  grow  up  as  rapidly 
as  possible  so  that  I  would  be  big  enough  to  go  out 
and  dig  up  buried  treasures.  That  the  treasures  were  there  I 
never  for  a  moment  doubted  and  my  only  fear  was  that  some 
one  would  beat  me  to  them.  My  faith  had  something  tangible 
to  rest  on,  too,  for  at  that  time  it  was  generally  believed  that 
the  great  pirate,  Lafitte,  had  buried  his  treasure,  not  on  Galves- 
ton  Island,  but  somewhere  on  the  mainland.  The  "discovery  of 
the  grave  of  the  wife  of  one  of  his  lieutenants  on  the  north  side 
of  Clear  Lake,  not  far  from  where  Seabrook  now  stands,  gave 
much  basis  for  the  belief  that  Lafitte  made  Clear  Lake  his  head- 
quarters and  it  was  generally  supposed  that  he  buried  his  treas- 
ures there.  Just  why  he  should  want  to  bury  his  treasures  at 
all,  no  one  undertook  to  explain,  but  as  that  was  a  long  accepted 
habit,  characteristic  of  all  pirates,  Lafitte  was  held  to  be  no 
exception  and  the  burial  of  his  treasures  was  accepted  as  a  fact. 
Now,  something  that  gave  the  buried  treasure  theory  a  de- 
cided boost  was  the  periodical  appearance  in  Houston  of  a  most 
disreputable  looking  character,  who  came  from  time  to  time 
from  no  one  knew  where,  to  indulge  in  a  ten  days'  or  two  weeks' 
drunk  and  then  to  disappear  as  mysteriously  as  he  had  appeared. 
He  was  a  villainously  looking  Greek  or  Italian,  had  but  one  eye 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 199 

and  a  scar  from  a  sabre  or  knife  cut  across  his  cheek.  His 
looks  were  sufficient  to  have  proven  him  an  ex-pirate,  but  in 
addition  to  that  he  always  brought  with  him  a  lot  of  gold  and 
silver  coins  of  ancient  date,  Mexican  and  Spanish  money.  He 
was  watched  carefully,  but  no  one  ever  discovered  where  he 
came  from  or  went  to.  No  one  ever  doubted  his  having  been 
one  of  Lafitte's  men  and  I  am  confident  that  every  boy  in 
Houston  had  implicit  faith  that  this  old  fellow  was  the  last  sur- 
vivor of  Lafitte's  gang  and  knew  where  all  the  treasure  was 
buried.  After  a  while  the  old  fellow's  visits  ceased  and  as  time 
wore  on  interest  in  him  and  his  treasure  ceased  also.  There  was 
too  little  information  about  Lafitte's  movements  and  none  at 
all  to  show  that  he  ever  buried  any  treasure  at  all,  so  when 
the  old  pirate  ceased  to  visit  Houston,  the  people  soon  forgot 
him  and  all  he  was  supposed  to  represent. 

Now,  while  the  existence  of  the  Lafitte  treasure  was  merely 
a  matter  of  supposition,  there  was  another  treasure  which  was 
known  to  exist  and  which  is  known  to  exist  today.  That  is  the 
$600,000  in  Mexican  money  known  to  have  been  buried  some- 
where on  the  Santa  Fe  trail  between  the  San  Jacinto  River  and 
the  Brazos  River.  I  don't  know  the  exact  date,  but  it  was  some 
time  in  the  early  30's  that  a  party  of  Mexicans  started  from 
East  Texas  for  Mexico  over  the  Santa  Fe  trail.  They  had  with 
them  $600,000  in  Mexican  money,  government  money.  At  some 
point  between  San  Jacinto  River  and  Brazos  River  this  party 
was  attacked  by  Indians.  They  took  refuge  in  a  sweet-gum 
island  (a  clump  of  trees  on  the  prairie  called  an  island)  near  a 
creek.  They  buried  the  money  in  a  hole  and  then  put  up  a 
fight  against  the  Indians.  The  Indians  were  in  strong  force  and 
the  result  was  that  all  the  Mexicans  except  one  were  killed.  One 
escaped,  though  he  was  so  badly  wounded  that  he  died  soon  after 
reaching  a  settlement  and  telling  the  story  of  the  disaster, 
though  he  could  not  give  the  location  of  the  fight  nor  any  definite 
information  beyond  the  fact  that  it  was  in  an  "island"  on  the 
banks  of  a  creek. 

Hundreds  of  people  have  searched  for  that  "island,"  but  its 
location  has  never  been  found.  At  one  time  it  was  thought  that 
it  was  found,  when  some  cowboys  discovered  a  lot  of  arrowheads 
sticking  in  a  sweet-gum  tree  on  Cypress  Creek,  in  the  west  part 
of  Harris  County.  Those  cowboys  got  spades  and  shovels,  but 
though  they  literally  tore  the  earth  up  for  hundreds  of  yards 
all  through  and  around  that  "island,"  they  found  nothing.  On 
another  occasion  a  German  farmer  while  out  hunting  for  cattle 
found  a  Mexican  dollar  sticking  in  the  bank  of  Cypress  Creek 
not  far  from  where  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  Railroad 
crosses  that  creek.  He  showed  the  dollar,  told  where  he  had 
found  it,  and  some  of  his  auditors  who  had  heard  the  story  of 
the  buried  treasure,  spoke  of  it  and  at  once  there  was  another 
rush  of  diggers.  The  search  was  very  thorough,  but  nothing 
was  found  and  the  treasure  remains  today  where  the  ill-fated 
Mexicans  buried  it  four  score  years  ago. 


200 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Some  rather  pathetic  and  other  rather  amusing  things  have 
been  connected  with  that  buried  treasure.  One  or  two  men  be- 
came so  fascinated  by  it  that  they  devoted  their  lives  to  search- 
ing for  it.  I  met  one  of  them  in  1873  and  spent  a  night  with 
him  at  his  camp  on  Cypress  Creek.  I  think  his  name  was  Shook 
or  Schukes.  Louis  Hillendahl,  who  lives  at  Spring  Branch, 
knew  him  well  and  told  me  the  old  man  did  nothing  but  search 
for  that  Mexican  money.  He  was  so  certain  that  it  was  located 
in  Harris  County  on  Cypress  Creek  that  he  would  search  no- 
where else  for  it. 

Sometime  about  1878  or  1879,  Charley  Fingerman,  who  was  a 
great  musician  in  Houston,  and  who  is  well  remembered  in 
Houston,  heard  of  the  treasure  and  determined  to  find  it  scien- 
tifically. Charley  had  married  a  lady  who  was  a  spirit  medium 
and  had  the  power  of  calling  up  the  dead.  He  was  about  half 
way  a  convert,  though  only  half  way,  but  he  was  enough  so  to 
lay  all  the  facts  before  his  wife  and  consult  her.  "A  sitting" 
was  had  and  the  spirits  promptly  told  them  where  the  treasure 
was  and  how  to  go  about  finding  it.  They  were  told  to  take  a 
table  with  them  and  place  it  out  on  the  prairie  about  a  hundred 
yards  from  a  certain  island  on  Cypress  and  then  to  await  de- 
velopments. They  did  as  directed.  Charley  told  me  the  story 
himself.  He  said  the  day  was  very  hot,  for  it  was  summer  and 
that  he  had  slipped  a  few  bottles  of  beer  in  a  basket  to  prevent 
sunstroke.  When  they  got  to  the  creek  he  slipped  off,  took  a 
good  drink  of  whiskey  and  washed  it  down  with  a  bottle  of  beer. 
He  said  it  was  so  hot  he  needed  something  to  strengthen  his 
faith.  There  were  five  or  six  people  in  the  party,  all  women 
except  Charley.  After  he  had  his  drink  they  took  the  table  out 
on  the  prairie  as  directed.  They  gathered  about  it  and  put 
their  hands  on  it.  Charley  said  his  faith  increased  by  leaps 
and  bounds  when  the  table  at  once  began  jumping  up  and 
down  and  started  off  hopping  in  the  direction  of  the  "island." 
The  table  led  them  into  the  little  grove,  and  going  to  a  large 
tree,  halted  and  began  jumping  up  and  down.  Charley  was  so 
excited  that  he  nearly  forgot  to  drink  another  bottle  of  beer 
when  he  went  down  to  the  creek  to  get  his  digging  tools.  The 
table  was  set  aside  and  Charley  went  to  work  with  his  spade 
and  for  two  hours  labored  faithfully.  He  found  nothing.  The 
ladies  consulted  over  the  situation  while  Charley  slipped  off  to 
refresh  himself. 

Finally  it  was  agreed  to  try  it  over,  so  the  table  was  taken 
out  on  the  prairie  again  where  it  cut  up  exactly  as  it  had  done 
before.  When  it  led  them  back  to  the  "island"  it  took  them  in 
at  one  of  the  sides  and  stopped  at  another  tree.  Charley  went 
to  the  creek,  took  another  big  drink  of  whiskey  and  a  bottle 
of  beer  and  returned  to  his  work  again.  This  time  he  dug  and 
dug,  not  only  at  the  place  indicated  by  the  table,  but  for  yards 
all  around  it  in  every  direction.  Finally  his  patience  was  ex- 
hausted and  rising  in  his  wrath  he  kicked  the  table  over,  cursing 
both  it  and  the  spirits.  That  settled  it  right  there,  for  the  indig- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 201 

nant  spirits  washed  their  hands  of  the  whole  affair  and  quit  in 
disgust.  The  ladies  were  horrified.  The  table  was  carried  out 
on  the  prairie  again,  but  the  insult  was  too  deadly.  They 
placed  their  hands  on  the  table,  sang  soothing  songs  and  began 
to  plead  with  the  spirits,  but  it  was  no  use,  the  table  refused  to 
move.  At  last  they  took  their 'hands  off  the  table  and  tried  to 
put  them  on  Charley,  but  he  was  too  quick  for  them  and  made 
his  escape.  Charley's  wife  and  all  the  ladies  blamed  him  for 
the  disaster  and  said  that  if  he  had  not  gotten  drunk  they  would 
have  found  all  that  money;  that  the  spirits  were  testing  their 
faith  and  would  have  led  them  to  the  proper  place  the  third 
time  if  he  had  not  spilled  over  and  spoiled  everything.  Charley 
defended  himself  as  well  as  he  could  and  finally  made  peace 
with  them,  but  they  could  never  get  him  to  go  on  another  treas- 
ure hunt  under  the  guidance  of  the  spirits. 


TROUBLESOME    GHOSTS. 

HOUSTON  has  had  its  full  quota  of  haunted  houses.  There 
have  been  a  number  of  them  in  different  parts  of  the 
town  and,  no  doubt,  if  one  took  the  trouble  to  look  for 
them,  others  could  be  found  today  just  as  real  and  just  as  scary 
as  were  the  old  ones.  The  old  ones,  of  which  I  speak,  were 
conducted  by  quite  a  variety  of  "hants."  There  were  serious 
minded  ghosts,  lively  ghosts,  noisy  ghosts  and  others  who  said 
or  did  nothing,  but  who  merely  made  their  presence  felt  in  the 
most  awe-inspiring  way.  I  have  had  personal  experience  with 
all  the  varieties,  for  I  was  ever  curious  about  such  matters  and 
never  let  an  opportunity  pass  to  make  an  investigation,  and  I 
can  say  from  my  own  experience  that  the  worst  ghost  of  all 
is  the  one  you  can  neither  see  nor  hear,  but  which  you  can 
"feel"  is  in  a  room  or  some  part  of  the  house  with  you,  and 
which  you  fear  is  going  to  lay  hands  on  you  at  any  moment. 

Occasionally  one  meets  an  amusing,  though  mischievous, 
ghost  or  set  of  ghosts  and  it  is  of  that  sort  I  am  going  to  speak 
now.  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  story  not  being  believed,  for  not 
only  is  it  absolutely  true,  but  there  must  be  hundreds  of  citizens 
yet  living  who  will  remember  all  about  it  when  they  read  this. 
It  was  too  remarkable  an  occurrence  to  have  escaped  their  minds 
completely.  The  only  point  on  which  I  am  doubtful  is  the 
exact  year  it  occurred,  but  I  am  rather  certain  it  was  in  1869. 
That,  however,  is  a  minor  matter. 

One  evening  during  the  summer  of,  let  us  say  1869,  a  saloon- 
keeper who  lived  out  on  McKinney  Avenue,  two  or  three  blocks 
beyond  Austin  Street,  took  his  seat  with  his  wife  at  the  supper 
table.  They  had  scarcely  commenced  the  meal  when  half  a 
brick,  coming  from  nowhere,  apparently,  landed  on  the  table, 
smashing  a  dish,  and  rolled  off  on  the  floor.  The  man  rushed 
out  of  the  house,  thinking  some  one  had  thrown  the  brick 
through  the  window  or  door,  but  he  saw  no  one.  He  returned 
to  the  supper  room  and  as  he  entered  it  another  half  brick 


202 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

smashed  a  picture  frame  that  was  hanging  on  the  wall.  Then 
other  bricks  and  things  began  to  fall  on  top  of  the  house  and 
on  its  sides. 

This  bombardment  continued  for  several  days  and  the  house 
soon  presented  the  appearance  of  a  general  wreck.  There  was 
not  a  pane  of  glass  left  and  everything  breakable  in  the  home 
was  in  fragments.  A  remarkable  thing  was  that  while  all  the 
window  panels  were  broken  none  of  the  woodwork  of  the  win- 
dow was  touched.  The  place  became  famous  and  hundreds  of 
people  watched  and  guarded  the  vacant  blocks  all  around  there 
every  night,  but  still  the  missiles  came.  I  was  there  one  night 
when  the  bone  of  a  cow's  leg,  a  tin  can,  a  large  piece  of  wood 
and  a  brickbat  were  hurled  all  together  against  the  front  of 
the  house  with  great  force.  It  would  seem  that  numerous  acci- 
dents would  have  happened  and  that  many  people  would  have 
been  injured  by  such  promiscuous  bombarding,  yet  I  believe  that 
only  one  person,  the  occupant  of  the  house,  was  ever  struck  and 
his  injury  was  trifling. 

Many  theories  were  advanced  to  account  for  such  things,  the 
most  popular  one  being  that  it  was  the  work  of  some  enemy  of 
the  man,  but  the  fatal  error  in  that  theory,  aside  from  the  man's 
statement  that  he  had  no  enemy,  was  to  account  for  the  way  in 
which  such  enemy  accomplished  the  feat  of  hurling  the  pro* 
jectiles  without  being  caught  in  the  act  of  doing  so.  One  or  two 
hundred  people  guarded  the  house  on  all  sides  and  in  every  direc- 
tion and  yet  no  one  ever  saw  anything  that  could  account  for 
the  phenomenon.  It  would  seem  impossible  for  a  half  brickbat 
to  be  hurled  from  a  great  distance  through  a  window  pane  with- 
out touching  any  of  the  woodwork  and  then  have  it  smash  a 
picture  or  looking  glass  hanging  on  the  wall  with  unfailing  ac- 
curacy, and  yet  that  was  exactly  what  occurred  night  after  night. 

Finally  everybody  gave  it  up  and  left  the  poor  fellow  alone 
at  the  mercy  of  the  ghosts.  The  bombardment  continued  for 
some  time  and  finally  the  man  concluded  to  go  to  headquarters 
for  a  solution  of  the  problem.  He  went  to  a*spirit  medium.  One 
or  two  "sittings"  were  held  and  he  was  informed  that  there  was 
great  wealth  buried  in  the  earth  under  the  house  and  that  he 
must  bore  for  it.  I  forget  whether  it  was  oil  or  gold  they  told 
him  was  there.  His  house  stood  immediately  over  the  place 
where  he  must  bore,  but  under  no  circumstances  must  he  move 
the  house.  He  was  absolutely  desperate  by  now,  for  his  house 
was  a  wreck  surrounded  by  cartloads  of  bricks,  bones,  tin  cans 
and  every  other  kind  of  trash  one  could  think  of.  He  was  will- 
ing to  do  anything  to  get  rid  of  the  ghosts,  so  he  sought  out 
a  well-borer,  made  a  contract  with  him  and  in  a  few  days  work 
was  begun.  A  derrick  was  erected  on  top  of  the  house,  a  hole 
was  cut  through  the  roof  and  through  the  floors  and  the  well 
boring  commenced.  So  soon  as  active  operations  were  com- 
menced the  ghosts  quit.  Not  another  stone  was  thrown  from 
that  time. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 203 

The  boring  continued  for  several  weeks  and  almost  as  many 
people  went  out  to  see  the  well  bored  as  had  gone  to  try  to  see 
the  ghosts,  for  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  a  well  being  bored 
right  through  the  roof  of  a  house.  I  don't  know  whatever  re- 
sulted from  sinking  the  well  beyond  the  fact  that  the  ghosts  were 
apparently  pleased  to  have  living  beings  complete  the  destruction 
of  the  man's  house  which  they  had  begun,  and  so  withdrew  from 
the  job.  If  gold  or  oil  were  ever  found  the  man  kept  it  a  pro- 
found secret,  for  no  one  ever  heard  of  it. 

Those  ghosts  were  amusing  fellows,  that  is  for  everybody  ex- 
cept the  owner  of  the  property,  and  as  the  spectators  were  gen- 
erally out  in  the  yard  with  plenty  of  company  it  was  not  the 
least  scary  to  be  there.  I  afterward  had  experience  with  one  of 
the  silent  fellows,  one  of  those  kind  you  can  neither  see  nor 
hear,  but  whom  you  can  "feel"  is  there  all  right.  I  stayed  in  a 
room  with  one  of  these  one  night  until  after  midnight.  Then 
the  lamp  went  out  suddenly,  something  blew  in  my  ear  and  I 
left.  I  can  give  the  street  and  number  of  this  place,  but  I  will 
not  do  so,  for  I  passed  it  the  other  day  and  saw  on  its  front: 
"Furnished  Rooms  to  Rent."  I  don't  want  to  empty  the  place, 
and  while  it  is  a  good  story  and  absolutely  true,  I  will  not  tell  it. 

*  *  * 

SINCLAIR'S  GOAT    RACES. 

ONE  hot  day  during  the  summer  of  1892,  Wm.  R.  Sinclair 
and  Nat  Floyd  were  standing  on  Congress  Avenue  near 
the  corner  of  Main  Street  when  two  boys  came  along 
driving  two  dilapidated-looking  goats,  hitched  to  wagons  made 
out  of  soap  boxes  and  mounted  on  baby  buggy  wheels.  Sin- 
clair's attention  was  drawn  to  the  activities  of  the  two  boys 
who  were  trying  to  get  some  action  out  of  their  respective  goats. 
Turning  to  Floyd,  Sinclair  said: 

"Floyd,  I'll  bet  you  that  the  far  goat  beats  the  other  to  the 
courthouse." 

"What'll   you  bet?"   asked   Floyd.   ' 

"Drinks  for  you  and  me  and  a  quarter  as  a  prize  for  the 
winner  of  the  race,"  said  Sinclair. 

"You're  on,"  said  Floyd.     "Line  up  your  goats." 

Sinclair  halted  the  two  boys  and  explained  the  situation  to 
them  and  they  readily  agreed  to  make  the  race.  Sinclair  and 
Floyd  got  out  in  the  street  and  began  the  preliminaries. 

At  that  time  Congress  Avenue  had  a  so-called  pavement,  but 
It  was  good  on  one  side  only.  There  were  no  traffic  laws  then, 
as  now,  so  anybody  used  the  side  of  the  street  that  seemed  best 
or  more  convenient.  The  result  was  that  only  one  side  of  the 
street  being  used  when  the  two  newspaper  men  took  charge  of 
the  goats,  they  blocked  traffic  in  both  ways.  A  big  crowd  began 
gathering  and  everybody  wanted  to  know  who  had  been  killed, 
what  accident  had  happened  or  what  was  the  matter.  Floyd  and 
Sinclair  made  no  answer,  but  went  ahead  with  their  work.  Just 


204 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

as  they  got  their  goats  in  line  a  rough  voice  was  heard  and  then 
Captain  Jack  White  showed  up  behind  the  voice.  The  moment 
he  saw  Sinclair  he  knew  something  wrong  was  going  on. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  you  rascal,"  he  said,  addressing  Sinclair.  "I 
could  have  closed  my  eyes  and  known  that  some  devil's  work 
was  on  foot  had  I  known  you  were  here.  What  are  you  going 
to  do  now.  It's  nothing  for  the  peace  and  law  and  order,  I 
know." 

"Why  Captain  White,"  said  a  lady  who  was  in  the  crowd.  "The 
gentleman  has  done  nothing  wrong  that  you  should  speak  to 
him  that  way.  He  and  the  other  gentleman  are  assisting  those 
two  boys  to  do  something,  that's  all." 

"Madam,"  said  Captain  Jack,  "Ye  do  not  know  this  chap  as  I 
know  him.  He  has  given  me  more  trouble  than  all  the  other 
rascals  in  town.  Wherever  he  goes  and  wherever  he  stops  I  look 
for  trouble.  It  may  look  innocent  to  you,  but  I  know  better, 
and  think  I'd  best  take  him  in  just  to  avoid  trouble." 

It  may  be  said  right  here,  that  Captain  Jack  White  thought 
Sinclair  one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  the  world,  and  while  he 
abused  him  to  his  face,  it  would  not  have  been  a  healthy  thing 
for  anyone  else  to  do  in  Captain  Jack's  hearing. 

"Now,  Captain,"  said  Sinclair,  "keep  your  shirt  on.  Floyd 
and  I  are  doing  nothing  except  trying  to  pull  off  a  goat  race  and 
we  can't  get  the  street  clear  of  carts,  wagons  and  horses."  Sin- 
clair then  told  the  captain  of  the  bet  with  Floyd  and  the  prize 
for  the  boy  who  won. 

"Is  that  all  you're  doing?"  said  the  captain.  "Clear  the  way 
there,"  he  shouts,  waving  his  club,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  had 
the  right  side  of  Congress  Avenue  clear  from  Travis  Street 
down  to  the  courthouse.  There  were  five  hundred  people  lined 
up  on  the  sidewalks  to  see  that  initial  race  and  the  winner  was 
cheered  to  the  echo. 

That,  briefly,  is  a  history  of  the  beginning  of  Sinclair's  famous 
goat  races  which  for  a  time  attracted  national  interest  and 
attention. 

While  Sinclair  never  had  much  in  common  with  a  goat  he 
always  had  a  great  deal  in  common  with  a  boy  and  was  a  bigger 
crank  about  boys  than  Jud  Lewis  is  about  babies.  He  was 
every  newsboy's  friend  and  confidential  adviser  and  knew  all 
their  trials  and  tribulations  much  better  than  their  parents  did. 
Whatever  he  said  do  they  did.  His  influence  was  not  confined 
to  the  newsboys,  but  extended  to  every  boy  in  Houston.  That 
being  true,  it  was  an  easy  thing  for  him  to  organize  the  boys 
into  a  great  racing  association,  goats  being  the  "ponies"  used. 

Sinclair  took  only  the  boys  in  his  confidence  and  no  one  knew 
of  the  first  goat  race  until  Sinclair  announced,  in  the  morning 
paper,  that  it  would  occur  one  afternoon  on  San  Jacinto  Street 
and  would  be  run  from  Preston  Avenue  to  Congress  Avenue. 
That  afternoon  San  Jacinto  Street  was  lined  on  both  sides  for 
the  entire  length  of  the  course.  Everybody  was  talking  goat 
and  the  whole  town  thought  of  nothing  else.  A  committee  of 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 205 

leading  citizens  called  on  Sinclair  and  asked  him  to  organize  a 
grand  race  for  the  next  year,  to  be  held  where  everybody 
could  see  it.  Magnolia  Park,  then  in  its  glory,  was  selected  as  the 
place.  Sinclair  got  busy  and  after  talking  to  his  boys  they  went 
to  work  with  a  will  and  soon  every  boy  in  Houston  who  could 
beg,  buy  or  borrow  a  goat  had  a  private  training  establishment 
of  his  own.  The  morning  newspaper  gave  Sinclair  all  the  space 
he  wanted  and  when  he  began  his  "publicity"  work  he  had  the 
publicity  department  of  the  No-Tsu-Oh  of  today  looking  like 
thirty  cents.  The  state  papers  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
thing  and  Houston's  Goat  Races  were  soon  the  best  advertised 
things  in  the  state. 

Next  year,  1893,  Sinclair  grew  ambitious  and  invited  Governor 
Hogg  to  come  to  Houston  and  act  as  official  goat  starter.  The 
governor  was  equal  to  the  occasion  and  promptly  accepted  the 
great  honor.  That  cinched  things.  The  idea  of  a  great  governor 
of  a  great  state  like  Texas,  leaving  his  arduous  dirties  to  come 
to  Houston  to  start  goat  races,  caught  the  people  and  the  rail- 
roads at  once  established  excursion  rates  to  Houston  from  all 
parts  of  the  state. 

When  the  great  day  came,  every  bank,  the  railroad  shops,  every 
wholesale  and  retail  house  in  Houston  was  closed  and  the  day 
was  made  a  real  holiday.  By  noon  there  was  hardly  a  man  or 
woman  to  be  seen  in  the  city,  and  not  a  single  boy.  Everybody 
had  gone  to  Harrisburg,  where  the  races  were  held. 

It  is  out  of  the  question  to  attempt  to  describe  the  scenes  on 
the  grounds.  Hundreds  of  prizes  had  been  offered  by  the  mer- 
chants and  everybody  had  contributed  something  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  boys.  There  were  tons  of  watermelons  and  hundreds  of 
cases  of  soda  water.  There  were  regular  hills  of  cakes  and 
pies  and  nothing  could  have  been  more  attractive  to  the  average 
boy  than  the  display  of  good  things  to  eat  and  drink.. 

Captain  Jack  White  was  about  right  when  he  told  the  lady  that 
Sinclair  could  not  keep  from  doing  something  outrageous.  Sin- 
clair had  invited  the  governor  to  come  to  Houston  and  had  given 
him  the  coolest  place  to  rest  in  during  the  heat  of  the  day, 
namely,  the  tent  where  the  watermelons  were  stored,  amid  chunks 
of  ice.  When  Sinclair  saw  the  big  governor  sitting  back,  fanning 
himself,  the  devil  tempted  him  and  he  fell.  He  got  about  two 
hundred  boys,  drew  them  up  in  line  behind  the  tent  and  told 
them  that  the  first  boy  to  get  in  the  tent  from  the  rear  could 
have  the  biggest  melon.  Then  he  gave  the  signal  to  charge  and 
the  next  moment  Governor  Hogg,  chunks  of  watermelon  and 
two  hundred  boys  were  struggling  amid  the  torn-down  tent.  It 
was  merely  a  side  play,  but  the  governor  enjoyed  it  as  much  as 
anyone. 

After  that  race  Houston  became  famous  as  a  sporting  center, 
and  before  long  a  challenge  was  received  from  Pittsburg,  Pa., 
saying  that  Pittsburg  had  the  fastest  goat  in  the  world  and  that 
if  the  Houston  champion  would  come  up  there  Pittsburg's  pet 
would  wipe  up  the  earth  with  him.  The  challenge  was  promptly 


206 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

accepted.  Sinclair  sent  his  champion  goat  and  boy  owner,  a 
young  chap  named  Bailey,  and  when  the  race  came  off  "Black 
Bill"  won  and  was  officially  declared  to  be  the  Champion  Fast 
Goat  of  the  World. 

The  people  of  Houston  used  to  turn  out  to  welcome  the  Hous- 
ton Light  Guard  when  they  came  back  home  victorious  from  an 
interstate  drill,  but  those  Light  Guard  receptions  sank  into  in- 
significance compared  to  that  given  "Black  Bill"  when  he  re- 
turned from  Pittsburg.  Everybody,  who  did  not  have  a  broken 
leg,  was  down  at  the  depot,  and  when  Black  Bill  and  his  proud 
owner  appeared,  the  heavens  were  rent  with  cheers.  A  proces- 
sion was  formed  and,  headed  by  a  brass  band,  marched  down 
Main  Street.  It  was  a  day  of  triumphant  rejoicing. 

I  think  that  if  proper  influence  were  used,  Sinclair  could  be 
induced  to  revive  those  famous  races.  He  is  just  as  great  a 
favorite  with  the  Houston  boys  now  as  he  was  with  those  of  years 
ago  and  he  can  get  them  to  do  things  quicker  and  more  heartily 
than  any  other  man  alive. 


FISHING   IN  THE  BAYOU. 

SATURDAY  afternoon  I  saw  two  or  three  little  negroes 
coming  across  the  Preston  Avenue  bridge,  and  each  one 
had  a  small  string  of  very  small  perch.  They  told  me 
that  they  had  been  fishing  away  above  Glenwood  Cemetery,  in 
Buffalo  Bayou.  The  sight  of  those  fish  carried  me  back  many 
years,  for  when  I  was  a  boy,  fishing  was  one  of  the  greatest  de- 
lights of  my  life.  There  were  plenty  of  fish  here,  too,  and  both 
Buffalo  Bayou  and  White  Oak  Bayou  were  famous  fishing  places. 
I  believe,  on  the  whole,  that  White  Oak  was  the  best  fishing 
stream,  though  both  were  good.  There  were  perch,  goggle-eyes, 
as  we  called  them;  sun-perch,  gasper-gou,  catfish,  suckers  and 
last,  but  not  least,  thousands  of  buffalo. 

There  was  more  fun  in  catching  buffaloes  than  in  catching 
anything  else,  though  after  we  had  caught  them  they  were  so 
full  of  bones  no  one  could  eat  them.  We  never  fished  for  the 
table,  however,  so  the  eating  feature  cut  no  figure  with  us.  The 
method  of  catching  them  was  simple.  We  would  buy  some  fish 
berries  at  the  drug  store,  mash  them  up  carefully  and  then  mix 
them  with  cornmeal  and  cotton,  so  as  to  form  balls  about  the 
size  of  a  marble.  We  would  boil  these  in  a  pot  and  then  dry 
them  out  thoroughly.  After  we  had  prepared  our  fish  balls  we 
would  get  in  a  boat  and  row  along  solwly,  throwing  the  balls  in 
all  the  deep  holes.  In  about  half  an  hour  we  would  return  over 
the  same  course  and  then  we  would  find  a  lot  of  fish  on  a  regular 
spree.  The  berries  would  make  them  so  drunk  that  they  would 
flop  around  on  top  of  the  water  and  would  actually  try  to  climb 
up  the  banks  of  the  bayou.  All  we  had  to  do  was  to  row  along 
slowly  and  pick  them  up.  I  believe  it  has  been  made  against 
the  law  to  fish  in  that  way  now,  though  I  don't  see  why,  since 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS  207 


the  fish  will  get  over  their  drunk  in  a  little  while  and 
as  live  and  active  as  ever.  Very  few  of  them  that  we  came  in 
contact  with,  ever  had  a  chance  to  reform  or  get  sober  either, 
for  we  had  an  idea  that  the  fish  had  to  be  cleaned  at  once,  other- 
wise they  would  poison  any  one  who  ate  them. 

One  sport  I  used  to  enjoy  more  than  anything  was  catching  big 
catfish.  White  Oak  Bayou  used  to  be  famous,  for  its  big  cat- 
fish, and  I  have  caught  many  fine  ones  over  there. 

Saturdays  were  always  busy  days  for  the  boy  fishermen.  We 
made  up  parties,  and,  starting  early  in  the  morning,  we  covered 
every  famous  place  for  miles  around  Houston.  There  was  not  a 
deep  hole,  a  sunken  log  or  other  place  where  fish  congregate  that 
was  not  known  to  us.  We  took  lunch  with  us  and  made  a  day 
of  it,  returning  long  after  sundown. 

We  had  lots  of  fun  in  every  way,  for  something  funny  was 
bound  to  happen  before  the  day  ended.  Once  Joe  Harris,  Charley 
Harris,  Dick  Fuller,  Will  Palmer  and  Andrew  Hutchison  were 
fishing  in  a  big  feole  up  on  White  Oak  Bayou.  The  current  had 
dug  out  both  banks  of  the  stream,  making  it  very  wide  as  well 
as  very  deep.  Joe  went  up  the  bayou  and  crossed  over  to  the 
opposite  side,  so  as  to  try  his  luck  there.  The  bank  was  very 
steep,  right  down  to  the  water's  edge,  but  he  managed  to  secure 
a  foothold  and  commenced  fishing.  We  were  all  very  quiet,  for 
it  was  against  the  rules  to  talk  while  we  were  fishing,  so  we 
could  hear  even  the  faintest  sound  in  the  woods  for  some  dis- 
tance. After  a  while  we  heard  a  frog  squeaking  off  in  the  dis- 
tance behind  Joe  Harris. 

"Squeak,"  "squeak,"  it  came  oftener  and  apparently  coming 
nearer.  Joe  made  some  remark  about  the  frog,  when  a  good- 
sized  fish  got  on  his  line  and  he  began  to  play  him,  all  of  us 
forgetting  our  rules  and  shouting  out  directions  to  him  what  to 
do.  Right  in  the  midst  of  our  excitement  that  frog  put  in  a 
personal  appearance.  He  reached  the  top  of  the  high  bank  im- 
mediately behind  and  over  Joe,  and  seeing  the  bayou  so  near,  he 
made  a  desperate  leap  and  landed  safely  in  the  water. 

The  next  moment  the  haste  of  the  frog  was  explained,  for  a 
great  big  snake  that  looked  like  a  show  snake  in  a  circus,  he 
was  so  big  and  ugly,  came  tearing  over  the  bank.  The  snake 
was  going  so  fast  in  its  efforts  to  catch  the  frog  that  it  was  over 
the  side  of  the  bank  and  coming  right  down  on  Joe  before  it 
saw  him.  The  snake  made  a  desperate  effort  to  stop  or  turn 
aside,  hue  it  was  all  in  vain,  for  he  came  down,  writhing  and 
twisting,  and  would  have  certainly  collided  with  Joe,  had  the 
latter  given  him  a  chance  to  do  so.  As  it  was,  Joe  was  too 
quick  for  the  snake,  for  before  it  reached  him,  he  threw  aside 
his  fishing  pole,  went  head  foremost  into  the  bayou  and  the  next 
instant  was  on  our  side.  We  could  never  decide  whether  Joe 
or  the  snake  was  the  worst  scared.  Joe  really  got  some  advan- 
tage out  of  the  snake's  interruption,  for  it  enabled  him  to  lie  for 
the  balance  of  the  day  about  the  size  of  that  fish  he  had  on  his 
line  when  the  snake  broke  in. 


208 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

There  must  have  been  thousands  of  black  bass  in  the  bayous 
at  that  time,  but  no  one  suspected  their  presence  because  no 
one  knew  how  to  fish  for  them.  A  few  years  ago  Dick  Fuller 
devised  a  plan,  or  rather  found  suitable  bait  for  them  and  since 
then  has  caught  hundreds  of  them  above  Shepherd's  dam.  The 
fact  that  Dick  can  catch  black  bass  is  no  argument  that  anybody 
else  can  catch  them,  for  he  can  come  as  near  catching  fish  on 
dry  land  where  there  are  no  fish,  as  anything.  As  the  negro 
says:  "Mr.  Dick  shore  is  a  fishin'  man." 

Speaking  of  Shepherd's  dam  reminds  me  of  a  little  natural 
history  I  learned  some  years  ago.  When  the  waterworks  built 
the  first  dam  across  the  bayou  near  -their  plant,  there  was  a 
broad  sandy  bar  formed  just  below  the  dam.  One  day  I  took 
a  crab  net  and  scooped  along  the  bottom  to  try  to  catch  some 
small  fish  for  bait.  When  I  took  the  net  up  I  found  in  it  one 
or  two  small  flounders.  I  made  several  dips  and  caught  several 
more.  It  was  evident  that  they  had  come  up  with  the  tide  and 
had  been  stopped  by  the  dam.  I  never  knew  until  then  that 
flounders  bred  in  fresh  water.  I  never  heard  of  a  large  flounder 
being  caught  in  the  bayou,  so  they  evidently  return  to  the  bay  or 
gulf  before  they  attain  any  size. 

But  then  Buffalo  Bayou  is  full  of  surprises.  Some  years  ago 
Dave  McNally,  who  lived  not  far  from  the  bayou,  discovered  a 
porpoise  down  about  the  foot  of  Louisiana  Street.  It  was  a  real 
sea  porpoise,  too.  Dave  notified  Albert  Erichson  of  his  discovery 
and  Albert  went  down  and  shot  it.  When  it  was  shot  it  was 
about  at  the  foot  of  Smith  Street.  They  pulled  it  out  of  the 
water  and  exhibited  it  as  long  as  they  could,  which  was  until 
the  health  officer  threatened  to  get  after  them  for  keeping  a 
nuisance  on  hand.  Then  they  got  a  big  pot  and  made  oil  out  of 
the  porpoise  and  made  a  lot  of  it,  too.  I  don't  think  a  whale 
has  ever  come  up  the  bayou,  but  I  would  not  be  surprised  to 
hear  that  one  had. 

*  *  * 

THUGS    AND    YELLOW    FEVER. 

LAST  Sunday  I  spoke  of  the  first  Federal  troops  that  ever 
came  to  Houston,  "the  army  of  occupation,"  and  told  of 
the  good  conduct  of  the  men  and  of  the  conservative  ad- 
ministration of  the  officers.  Of  course,  in  an  army  such  as  that, 
there  were  "toughs"  and  a  few  of  those  broke  out  from  time  to 
time  and  caused  trouble.  However,  they  did  not  always  get 
away  with  the  play,  for  when  a  sixshooter  was  at  that  time  as 
much  a  part  of  a  man's  toilet  as  his  boots  or  shoes,  there  were 
always  two  sides  to  an  attempted  knockdown  and  robbery  or  the 
creation  of  a  "hot  house,"  when  circumstances  did  not  justify 
such  creation.  Of  course  while  the  town  was  under  military 
rule — as  a  fact,  if  not  really  so  in  name — it  was  not  a  healthy 
thing  for  a  citizen  to  kill  a  soldier,  no  matter  what  the  provoca- 
tion might  be,  so  that  while  two  or  three  such  killings  did  occur, 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 209 

those  who  did  such  excellent  killings  took  good  pains  to  avoid 
taking  credit  for  them. 

The  slungshots  used  by  the  thugs  were  made  of  lead  and  were 
about  the  size  of  a  large  egg.  They  were  fastened  to  a  leather 
thong  and  this  was  slipped  over  the  wrist  and  securely  knotted 
there.  It  was  a  fearful  weapon  and  with  it  skulls  and  bones 
could  be  easily  crushed.  An  old  German  was  found  on  Washing- 
ton Street  one  morning  with  a  crushed  skull,  while  a  negro  had 
his  shoulder  smashed  somewhere  out  on  Main  Street.  No  doubt 
there  were  other  cases,  but  if  so,  I  have  forgotten  them.  I  do 
remember  three  casualties  on  the  other  side.  One  was  a  soldier 
found  on  Main  Street  just  above  where  the  Rice  Hotel  stands. 
He  had  been  shot  through  the  head  and  the  slungshot  attached  to 
his  wrist  told  the  story  of  why  he  had  been  shot.  Another  was 
a  soldier  found  one  morning  at  daylight  just  in  front  of  the  gate 
of  the  old  Episcopal  Cemetery.  He,  too,  was  shot  through  the 
head,  but  as  the  ball  entered  at  the  back  the  supposition  was  that 
he  had  missed  his  victim  when  he  struck  at  him  with  the  slung- 
shot and  had  then  tried  to  get  away.  The  slungshot  attached  to 
his  right  wrist  told  what  part  he  had  played  in  the  tragedy. 
Another  case  that  occurred  out  on  Main  Street  had  more  of  the 
ludicrous  than  the  tragic  about  it.  A  negro  was  going  home  late 
one  night.  He  was  met  by  a  soldier,  who  walked  directly  up 
to  him  and  without  a  word  made  a  lick  at  him  with  his  slung- 
shot. Instinctively  the  negro  threw  up  both  hands  to  protect 
his  head  and  the  lead  ball  struck  him  on  the  palm  of  his  right 
hand.  His  hand  closed  and  he  hung  on  for  dear  life.  He  was 
afraid  to  turn  loose  and  the  soldier,  having  the  leather  thong 
knotted  around  his  wrist,  could  not  get  loose.  They  fought  and 
struggled  there,  the  negro  shouting  "murder,"  "help,"  at  the  top 
of  his  voice.  They  made  such  a  row  that  people  in  the  neigh- 
borhood were  aroused  and  help  came.  The  soldier  was  captured 
and  taken  to  the  provost  officer  in  the  old  courthouse.  He  was 
locked  up  and  presumably  punished,  though  I  never  heard  how. 

Soon  after  the  troops  had  been  located  at  desirable  points  in 
the  state  the  reason  for  their  presense  was  more  apparent.  All 
state,  county  and  city  officials,  who  had  been  chosen  by  the 
people,  were  turned  out  of  office  and  their  successors  appointed 
by  the  president  of  the  United  States  and  by  the  state  officials 
so  appointed,  and  the  work  of  "reconstruction"  was  begun. 
Houston  was  reconstructed,  of  course,  and  though  it  had  escaped 
all  the  horrors  of  war,  it  was  made  to  realize  that  there  are 
some  things  worse  than  war.  A  lot  of  "scalawags"  were  put  in 
office  and  as  they  were  backed  by  Federal  bayonets,  they  pro- 
ceeded to  loot  the  county  and  city  in  the  most  up-to-date  manner. 
But  I  do  not  intend  to  say  anything  on  that  subject  now,  but 
shall  simply  jot  down  some  memories  that  come  to  me  as  my 
mind  goes  back  to  the  long  ago. 

The  army  was  not  much,  in  evidence,  for  its  mere  presence 
was  all  that  was  necessary  to  give  the  looters  free  hand.  The 
citizens  accepted  the  inevitable  and  did  the  best  they  could. 


210 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

For  about  eighteen  months  a  sort  of  armed  peace  existed  between 
the  soldiers  and  citizens  and  then,  in  1867,  the  great  yellow  fever 
epidemic  broke  out.  With  hundreds  of  soldiers,  camp  followers 
and  "carpetbaggers"  from  the  North,  who  had  never  been  ex- 
posed to  yellow  fever,  the  camps  and  town  were  soon  hotbeds  of 
pestilence  and  the  death  rate  was  appalling. 

At  that  time  there  was  only  one  undertaker  or  "funeral  di- 
rector" in  Houston,  though  he  called  himself  and  was  called  by 
others  the  "city  sexton."'  He  was  known  to  every  man,  woman 
and  child  in  Houston  as  "Old  Man"  Pannel,  the  "old  man" 
being  a  term  of  affection,  for  in  spite  of  his  gloomy  calling  every- 
body loved  "Old  Man"  Pannel.  He  was  a  great  character  and 
one  of  the  most  uncompromising  "rebels"  that  the  South  ever 
produced.  He  never  was  reconstructed  and  died  as  he  had 
lived,  hating  the  "Yankees"  to  the  end.  At  first  he  was  con- 
stantly in  hot  water  and  was  once  or  twice  taken  to  headquar- 
ters by  the  guard  of  soldiers  because  of  his  intemperate  lan- 
guage, but  finally  the  commander  concluded  that  he  would  have 
to  do  one  or  two  things — shoot  Pannel  or  ignore  him  altogether, 
and  wisely  concluded  to  follow  the  latter  course. 

When  the  yellow  fever  broke  out  Pannell  found  himself  the 
busiest  man  in  Houston,  for  in  addition  to  his  regular  customers 
in  the  city,  he  had  to  provide  for  the  dead  soldiers.  He  hired 
negroes  with  drays,  negro  grave  diggers  and  extra  carpenters 
to  make  coffins,  but  with  all  that  he  was  swamped.  The  soldiers 
died  faster  than  he  could  bury  them.  There  was  an  accumula- 
tion of  dead  soldiers  at  the  camp  and  the  officers  became  sus- 
picious of  Pannel  and  had  him  arrested  for  not  performing  his 
*  duty.  He  was  taken  before  the  commander,  who  said  to  him: 

"Mr.  Pannel,  they  tell  me  you  dislike  to  bury  my  soldiers." 

"General,"  said  Pannel,  "whoever  told  you  that  told  a  damned 
lie.  It's  the  pleasantest  thing  I've  had  to  do  in  years  and  I 
can't  get  enough  of  it.  I  would  like  to  bury  every  damned  one 
of  you." 

The  interview  ended  abruptly,  for  the  general  ordered  Pannel 
to  jail.  He  did  not  stay  long,  for  his  services  were  in  too  great 
demand  and  he  was  released  and  went  back  to  work.  According 
to  his  story,  he  had  his  revenge.  "You  see,"  he  would  say, 
"these  Yankees  think  a  nigger  is  as  good  as  they  are  and  better 
than  we  are,  so  I'm  giving  them  their  own  medicine.  In  mixing 
up  the  cards,  so  to  speak,  I  plant  a  nigger  and  then  I  plant  a 
white  soldier.  Sometimes  I  put  a  white  one  with  three  or  four 
niggers  and  then  I  reverse  it  and  put  a  nigger  with  three  or  four 
white  ones.  Those  relatives  up  North  are  going  to  have  a  hell 
of  a  time  getting  things  straight  and  the  chances  are  that 
some  nigger  is  going  to  rest  under  a  big  tombstone  meant  for 
a  white  man."  Pannel  died  years  ago  and  with  him  passed  away 
one  of  the  most  remarkable  characters  that  ever  lived  in  Houston. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 211 

EARLY   TRAGEDIES. 

AN  evening  or  two  ago  I  dropped  in  to  see  some  moving 
pictures  on  the  southeast  corner  of  Prairie  Avenue  and 
Main  Street.    While  I  watched  a  mimic  tragedy  pictured 
on  the  screen,  it  occurred  to  me  that  identical  locality  had  been 
the  scene  of  more  real  tragedies  than  any  other  place  in  Hous- 
ton, or  perhaps  any  other  single  point  in  Texas.     The  reason  is 
obvious  when  it  is  said  that  on  that  corner  was  located  one  of 
the  most  fashionable  saloons  in  town  and  that  the  spacious  sec- 
ond story  was  devoted  to  gambling  and  billiards. 

Before  the  war  the  saloon  was  owned  and  run  by  a  man  named 
Charles  Harris.  He  was  a  man  of  good  manners  and  consid- 
erable polish;  was  known  to  be  a  "square  man"  and  had  nu- 
merous friends.  In  those  days  the  modern  club  was  unknown, 
and  lawyers,  doctors,  bankers,  merchants,  and  in  fact  every- 
body went  in  saloons  and  billiard  halls  and  thought  no  more  of 
doing  so  than  they  do  today  of  going  to  a  restaurant  or  a  soda 
fountain.  Harris,  as  I  have  said,  was  popular  and  his  place  was 
generally  well  filled,  while  the  billard  hall  and  faro  bank  upstairs 
did  a  thriving  business. 

Now,  when  gambling  and  whiskey  get  together  there  is  more 
than  apt  to  be  trouble,  and  Harris'  place  was  a  shining  example 
of  the  truth  of  this.  There  were  a  number  of  very  large  syca- 
more and  cottonwood  trees  growing  both  on  the  Main  Street 
and  the  Prairie  Street  side  of  the  place,  so  Harris  chose  as  a 
name  for  his  saloon  "The  Shades."  On  one  occasion  a  young 
lawyer  congratulated  Harris  on  the  appropriateness  of  the  name, 
but  suggested  that  it  would  be  still  more  appropriate  if  he  could 
have  the  "S"  painted  out  and  leave  it  "Hades."  "Then,"  said 
he,  "the  only  objection  that  could  be  raised  is  that  yours  is  the 
home  of  imported  spirits  while  the  other  is  the  home  of  exported 
spirits." 

When  I  was  a  little  fellow  I  remember  seeing  a  big  black- 
smith, who  had  a  shop  on  Travis  Street,  between  Preston  and 
Prairie  Avenues,  come  running  out  of  the  saloon  with  something 
that  looked  like  an  axe-handle  in  his  hand.  He  was  closely 
followed  by  another  man,  without  a  hat,  whose  head  and  face 
were  covered  with  blood.  This  man  had  a  big  bowie  knife  in 
his  hand  and  just  before  the  blacksmith  reached  the  corner 
where  Dr.  Robert's  residence  stood,  but  where  now  stands  the 
Lumbermans  National  Bank,  he  caught  up  with  the  blacksmith 
and  sank  the  knife  in  his  shoulder.  The  blacksmith  turned  and 
dealt  him  a  terriffic  blow  with  his  stick,  and  both  fell  in  the 
street.  I  don't  think  either  was  killed.  I  know  the  blacksmith 
was  not,  for  on  the  following  San  Jacinto  Day,  I  saw  another 
fellow  chase  him  from  the  north  side  of  market  square  clear 
to  his  shop,  which  he  reached  in  time  to  shut  the  door  and  keep 
the  other  fellow  out.  This  other  fellow  had  an  ugly  looking 
bowie  knife,  too,  but  his  friends  came  up  and  took  him  away.  I 
don't  remember  the  name  of  the  blacksmith,  but  I  judge  from 


212 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

what  I  saw  of  him  when  I  was  a  boy  that  he  must  have  been 
rather  contentious  and  fond  of  bickering  and  argument. 

I  remember,  when  a  child,  hearing  of  shootings  and  cuttings  at 
"The  Shades,"  but  I  was  too  young  to  grasp  the  details.  The 
first  tragedy  that  came  under  my  personal  observation  occurred 
about  1858  or  1859.  I  was  coming  up  Prairie  Avenue  from  the 
direction  of  the  bayou.  When  about  Travis  Street  I  saw  a  small 
man  struggling  out  in  Main  Street  with  a  big  fat  man.  The  big 
man  had  the  small  man  grasped  from  behind  and  was  evidently 
trying  to  prevent  him  using  a  six-shooter  he  held  in  his  hand. 
At  a  window  on  the  second  floor  of  the  buliding  another  man  ap- 
peared and  poked  what  looked  like  a  walking  cane  out  of  the 
window.  The  movement  of  the  two  struggling  in  the  street  be- 
came more  animated  and  then  the  little  man  turned  his  pistol 
under  his  arm  and  shot  the  big  man  through  the  chest.  The 
big  fellow  dropped  and  with*out  turning  to  look  at  him,  the  little 
fellow  began  shooting  at  the  man  upstairs. 

It  was  all  over  in  a  moment.  The  little  man  in  the  street 
was  one  of  the  leading  business  men  of  Houston,  while  the  man 
upstairs  with  the  cane  was  a  fashionable  physician.  There  had 
been  serious  trouble  between  the  two  which  had  resulted  in 
the  merchant  ordering  the  doctor  to  leave  town  within  24  hours. 
The  24  hours  had  expired  that  afternoon  and  the  doctor  still 
being  in  town  the  merchant  had  gone  gunning  for  him.  He 
armed  himself  with  a  shotgun  and  sixshooter  and  finding  the 
doctor  taking  a  drink  in  "The  Shades,"  he  pulled  down  on  him. 
The  doctor,  whose  back  was  to  the  door,  saw  his  enemy  in  the 
looking  glass  and  just  as  the  gun  was  fifed  he  dropped  to  the 
floor  and  the  bartender,  who  was  in  front  of  him,  received  the 
full  load  in  his  chest.  The  doctor  jumped  to  his  feet  and  rushed 
for  an  enclosed  stairway  leading  upstairs.  Just  as  he  was  dis- 
appearing up  the  steps  the  merchant  discharged  the  other  barrel 
of  his  shotgunt  at  him.  Only  one  buckshot  took  effect  and  that 
passed  through  the  doctor's  heel.  The  merchant  then  went  out 
in  the  street,  where  he  was  grabbed  by  his  too  zealous  friend, 
whom  he  had  to  shoot  in  order  to  have  a  chance  to  protect  him- 
self from  the  doctor,  who  was  armed  with  a  rifled  shooting  cane. 

Two  men  were  seriously  wounded  and  the  doctor  was  only 
slightly  wounded,  yet  strange  to  say  both  got  well,  while  the  doc- 
tor took  lockjaw  and  died  a  few  days  later. 

The  next  sensational  shooting  that  took  place  there  was  just 
before  the  war.  It  was  between  one  of  the  leading  physicians 
of  Houston  on  one  side  and  a  distinguished  citizen  of  Texas,  a 
veteran  of  the  Mexican  war,  and  his  son  on  the  other.  Fortunate, 
while  both  father  and  son  were  terribly  wounded,  no  one  was 
killed  and  all  three  rose  to  prominence  during  the  war  that  soon 
followed. 

There  had  been  a  feud  of  long  standing  between  the  doctor 
and  the  captain.  Mutual  friends  had  patched  this  up  and  no 
one  was  looking  for  trouble  between  the  two.  The  captain  and 
his  son  came  to  town  that  morning  and  they  had  not  been  here 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 213 

long  before  the  captain  began  abusing  his  old  enemy  and  making 
threats  against  him.  The  doctor,  hearing  of  this,  went  home, 
for  his  bravery  and  courage  were  of  such  high  order  that  no 
one  could  question  his  motive  and  he  could  afford  to  do  so  in 
order  to  avoid  trouble.  About  four  o'clock  sme  injudicius 
friend  went  to  the  doctor's  house  and  told  him  the  captain  was 
in  "The  Shades,"  abusing  him  and  declaring  that  he  (the  doc- 
tor) had  run  to  the  hole.  The  doctor  said  nothing  but  after  his 
friend  had  left  he  got  his  six-shooter  and  went  down  to  "The 
Shades"  to  investigate.  The  captain  and  his  son  had  gone  up- 
stairs and  were  playing  billiards.  The  doctor  entered  the  room 
smoking  a  long-stemmed  meerschaum  pipe.  Drawing  his  pistol 
he  said:  "Defend  yourself,  captain.  I  have  come  to  kill  you." 
The  captain  was  as  eager  for  a  fight  as  was  the  doctor,  but  he 
was  by  no  means  as  cool  as  the  latter.  They  both  fired  together, 
the  captain's  shot  going  wild,  but  the  doctor's  ball  piercing  the 
captain's  breast,  who  went  down  in  a  heap.  Now  right  here 
occurred  a  repetition  of  what  had  occurred  in  the  street  a  year 
or  two  before.  Old  man  Pannel,  the  same  I  wrote  about  the 
other  day,  grabbed  the  doctor  from  behind  and  attempted  to 
pinion  his  arms.  The  captain's  son  reversed  his  billard  cue  and 
was  advancing  on  the  doctor  for  the  purpose  of  braining  him 
with  it.  The  doctor,  finding  it  useless  to  argue  with  Pannell  and 
being  unable  to  free  himself,  turned  his  pistol  on  Pannell  and  shot 
him  through  the  arm.  Being  free  he  then  shot  the  captain's  son 
and  that  ended  the  affair.  The  captain  lingered  between  life  and 
death  for  three  or  four  months  but  got  well.  The  son  soon  re- 
covered, while  Pannell  was  taken  in  charge  by  the  doctor  and 
soon  restored  to  health. 

Of  course,  there  were  a  number  of  killings  took  place  on  this 
corner,  where  the  killers  and  victims  were  sports  and  hard  char- 
acters. I  remember  one  or  two  of  these,  but  I  pass  them  by 
and  use  only  the  two  I  have  given  above,  for  they  were  between 
persons  of  high  social  prominence  and  serve  to  illustrate  the 
cosmopolitan  character  of  "The  Shades,"  if  I  can  use  the  term 
in  that  connection. 

*  *  * 

HOUSTON    TURNVEREIN. 

THE  other  night  I  was  passing  along  the  Carolina  Street  side 
of  the  Turnverein  grounds  when  it  occurred  to  me  that 
just  in  the  middle  of  that  block  was  where  I  had  seen 
the  first  dead  Confederate  soldier.  I  saw  thousands  of  dead 
ones  after  that  but  none  that  left  such  an  impression  on  my 
mind  as  did  that  first  one.  He  was  a  member  of  the  Turnverein 
company  organized  and  commanded  by  Captain  E.  B.  H.  Schnei- 
der at  the  breaking  out  of  the  war.  The  company  was  one  of 
the  best  that  left  Houston  for  the  front  and  made  quite  a  name 
for  itself.  It  was  composed  entirely  of  members  of  the  Turn- 
verein, which  organization  had  been  perfected  some  years  before. 
T>«,  he  exact-  the  Verein  was  organized  on  January  14,  1854,  and 


214 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

on  the  first  page  of  its  old  minute  book  its  story  is  told  in  the 
following  simple  and  touching  language: 

"We,  the  undersigned,  assembled  this  forenoon  in  Gable's 
house,  to  confer  in  regard  to  the  institution  of  a  Turnverein.  It 
was  the  wish  of  all  to  belong  to  a  society  where  each  feels  as  a 
brother  to  the  other  and  lives  for  him  and  with  him  as  a  brother. 
We  have,  therefore,  associated  ourselves  under  a  brotherly  pres- 
sure of  hands  and  promised  each  other  to  organize  a  Turnverein 
with  energy  and  love  in  the  cause  and  assure  its  existence  by 
continued  activity. 

"(Signed)     T.  Heitmann,  F.  Reitmann,  Marschall,  Louis  Pless, 
John  P.   Thordale,   Robert  Voight,  E.  B.   H.   Schneider,  August 
Sabath,  B.  Scheurer  and  L.  Scheihagen. 
"Houston,  January  14,  1854." 

Captain  Schneider  was  a  great  athlete  and  to  him  was  assigned 
the  task  of  organizing  a  gymnastic  class.  He  organized  two — 
one  for  the  men  and  one  for  the  ladies.  He  was  most  thorough 
in  his  teaching  and  it  was  not  long  before  the  Houston  Turners 
gained  name  and  fame  for  themselves  in  athletic  circles. 

At  the  beginning  there  were  very  few  members,  but  it  was 
not  long  before  the  association  grew  to  such  proportions  that 
they  were  enabled  to  add  other  features  to  their  gymnasium. 
A  fire  company  was  organized,  a  good  German-English  school 
was  established  and  then,  when  war  was  talked  of,  the  famous 
military  company  was  organized,  composed  entirely  of  members 
of  the  Verein.  It  was  of  this  company  I  started  to  tell  you. 

Captain  Schneider  was  born  a  soldier  and  had  had  a  thorough 
military  training,  of  course,  before  coming  to  this  country.  He 
at  once  started  in  to  apply  the  most  rigid  discipline  and  ex- 
haustive methods  in  training  his  men  to  be  soldiers.  He  would 
load  them  down  with  all  their  camp  equipment,  heavy  guns  and 
cartridge  boxes  and  march  them  for  hours,  away  out  in  the 
country  and  back  again,  and  would  put  them  through  quick  and 
double-quick  time  for  the  amusement  of  people  who  had  gath- 
ered to  see  them  drill. 

It  was  while  putting  the  men  through  one  of  these  gruelling 
marches  that  the  soldier  I  speak  of  lost  his  life.  The  captain 
marched  the  company  down  San  Jacinto  Street  to  the  bayou. 
The  wharf  was  about  eight  feet  high  and  the  water  was  twelve 
or  fifteen  feet  deep  right  up  to  the  wharf.  The  captain  marched 
the  company  right  over  the  wharf  into  the  bayou.  He  wanted 
them  to  cross  to  the  other  side  and  march  on  as  if  nothing  had 
happened.  After  some  floundering  all  the  company  except  one 
man  got  across.  Strange  to  say  the  one  who  failed  was  consid- 
ered the  best  swimmer  and  all-round  athlete  in  the  company,  but 
he  lost  his  life.  The  body  was  recovered  almost  immediately 
and  was  borne  sorrowfully  to  the  armory  of  the  company,  which 
was  a  modest  little  building  near  the  middle  of  the  block  about 
where  the  hall  is.  The  dead  soldier  was  given  a  military  fu- 
neral which  was  probably  the  first  that  occurred  in  Texas  at  the 
beginning  of  the  war. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 215 

The  people  of  Houston  really  do  not  appreciate  what  the 
Turners  have  done  for  the  city  and  the  state.  The  first  semi- 
public  school  in  Houston  was  established  by  the  Turners  two 
years  after  the  close  of  the  war.  Those  who  could  pay  for  the 
education  of  their  children  did  so,  but  there  was  a  deficit  always 
and  the  Turners  made  this  good  from  their  treasury.  By  mis- 
representing the  South  the  emigration  agents  were  turning  the 
tide  of  emigration  to  the  West  and  North.  To  counteract  this 
the  Turners  prepared  and  had  printed,  at  their  own  expense, 
thousands  of  pamphlets  which  they  sent  broadcast  over  Ger- 
many and  other  points  from  which  desirable  emigrants  were 
coming  to  this  country.  In  this  way  they  secured  for  Texas 
numbers  of  the  best  citizens  the  state  has  today. 

I  say  nothing  of  their  record  as  musicians,  for  everybody 
knows  that  but  for  the  Turners  Houston  would  never  have  at- 
tained its  prominence  as  a  music-loving  community  as  soon  as 
it  did,  nor  have  attained  the  high  position  it  now  holds  in  the 
musical  world.  That  is  the  one  thing  that  everybody  knows 
about  the  Turners,  but  the  things  I  have  mentioned  are  not  so 
generally  known  nor  appreciated  as  they  should  be. 

*  *  * 

OLD  SWIMMING  HOLES. 

IF  ever  a  place  has  been  absolutely  ruined  and  sent  to  the 
eternal  bow-wows  by  modern  improvement  and  expansion, 
that  place  is  Houston,  judged  from  a  boy's  point  of  view. 
Huge  buildings  of  stone  and  brick,  paved  streets,  factories  and 
shops  of  all  kinds  are  well  enough  for  the  grownups,  but  they 
are  not  conducive  to  that  unalloyed  happiness  the  old-time  boys 
enjoyed.  I  don't  know  how  the  modern  boy  gets  any  enjoyment 
at  all  out  of  life.  If  he  wants  to  learn  to  swim  he  is  given  les- 
sons in  a  tank.  If  he  wants  to  go  fishing  he  has  to  take  a  train 
and  go  somewhere  else  to  do  it.  If  he  wants  to  go  out  in  the 
woods  to  gather  wild  flowers  for  his  sweetheart  or  get  some 
sweet  gum  he  has  to  go  miles  and  miles  in  an  automobile,  while 
if  he  wants  to  go  hunting  he  has  to  go  away  off  to  do  so.  To 
indulge  in  any  of  these  delightful  sports,  this  modern  boy  has 
to  make  as  much  preparation  as  if  he  were  going  on  a  long  rail- 
way journey.  Not  content  with  expanding  out  all  over  the  old 
hunting  and  fishing  places,  thus  wiping  them  off  the  map,  modern 
Houston  has  gone  a  step  further  and  absolutely  ruined  the 
bayou.  Looking  at  the  dirty,  grease-covered  bayou  of  today,  one 
would  never  think  that  at  one  time  it  was  one  of  the  prettiest 
streams  in  Texas;  that  its  water  was  clean  and  limpid,  covered 
with  water  lillies  and  filled  with  fish  and  crabs,  and  that  its 
banks  were  grassy  and  overgrown  with  wild  flowers.  "Going 
in  swimming"  was  then  one  of  the  greatest  delights  of  the  Hous- 
ton boys  and  from  about  the  middle  of  April  until  late  in  the  fall 
the  swimming  holes  were  generally  well  filled  from  morning 
till  night.  There  were  some  favorite  swimming  holes,  but  I 
venture  to  say  that  99  per  cent  of  the  boys  learned  to  swim  in 


216 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"Stockbridges,"  down  at  the  foot  of  Texas  Avenue.  This  was  a 
famous  place.  The  water  at  no  point  was  more  than  four  feet 
deep,  while  the  bottom  was  pure  white  sand.  It  was  a  great 
watering  place  for  draymen  and  teamsters  and  was  also  used 
as  a  ford  for  teams  to  cross  from  one  side  of  the  bayou  to  the 
other.  As  a  rule,  only  the  little  boys  used  Stockbridges,  for  it 
was  considered  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  boy  who  could  swim 
to  go  in  there.  It  was  a  kind  of  kindergarten  swimming  hole. 

About  two  blocks  below  Stockbridges,  near  the  foot  of  Prairie 
Avenue,  was  "Evans  hole."  There  were  large  trees  on  each 
side  of  the  bayou,  which  cast  a  good  shade  over  the  water,  thus 
making  it  a  delightful  place  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  "Evans 
hole"  had  a  hard,  sandy  bottom,  was  free  from  snags  and,  while 
quite  deep  in  the  middle,  was  shallow  on  each  side.  Further 
down  the  bayou,  at  the  foot  of  Smith  Street,  was  "The  Syca- 
mores." This  was  a  very  deep  hole,  having  a  large  sycamore 
tree  leaning  far  over  it,  from  which  the  boys  were  accustomed 
to  dive.  Being  so  deep,  with  steep  banks  and  no  shallow  water, 
"The  Sycamores"  was  used  only  by  the  boys  who,  I  may  say, 
were  in  the  junior  class  of  swimmers.  I  have  seen  some  fine 
fights  and  funny  things  down  at  "The  Sycamores,"  but  one  that, 
while  funny  enough,  came  near  ending  disastrously,  I  will  never 
forget.  Jim  Blake,  afterward  Dr.  James  Blake,  who  died  a  few 
years  ago,  came  down  to  the  swimming  hole  one  afternoon, 
bringing  two  immense  Mexican  gourds.  Each  was  corked  tight- 
ly and  had  a  piece  of  rope  tied  round  its  middle.  When  asked 
what  he  was  going  to  do,  Jim  informed  us  that  he  was  going  to 
show  us  how  to  walk  on  water.  He  pulled  off  his  clothes  and  was 
ready  for  action,  for  bathing  suits  were  unknown  at  that  time. 
He  carefully  tied  the  gourds,  one  to  each  ankle,  and  without  the 
slightest  hesitation  crawled  out  on  the  sycamore  overhanging 
the  water  and  let  himself  down.  He  had  a  good  start,  all  right, 
for  the  distance  was  just  sufficient  to  submerge  the  gourds  so 
they  would  bear  his  weight. 

We  looked  on  admiringly  and  then  Jim  turned  loose  his  hold 
on  the  tree.  There  was  a  terrible  splash  and  Jim's  head  and 
body  disappeared  but  his  feet  remained  in  sight.  You  should 
have  seen  how  those  gourds  whirled  and  moved  about.  We  were 
all  so  scared  we  did  not  know  what  to  do.  In  the  struggles 
to  get  his  head  where  his  feet  were  Jim  drifted  out  toward  the 
middle  of  the  bayou.  So  far  as  we  were  concerned  Jim  would 
have  drowned  right  there  had  he  not  managed  to  catch  hold 
of  one  of  the  ropes  up  by  the  side  of  his  feet.  He  coughed, 
spluttered  and  threw  up  water  like  a  walrus,  but  he  kept  his 
head  above  water  and  began  abusing  us  for  not  helping  him. 
Seeing  that  he  was  safe  and  in  no  immediate  danger  of  drowning 
the  boys  returned  his  abuse  with  interest  and  guyed  him  about 
walking  on  water,  calling  on  him  to  walk  out.  Finally  one  of 
the  big  boys  swam  out  and  towed  him  to  shore.  He  was  mad 
with  himself  and  mad  with  us  too  and  his  temper  was  not  cooled 
the  least  bit  when  after  getting  rid  of  his  gourds  he  started  to 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 217 

dress  and  found  that  some  one  had  tied  his  shirt,  coat  and  pants 
in  hard  knots.  He  sat  there,  "chawed  bacon"  as  the  process  of 
untying  the  knots  with  the  teeth  was  called,  and  swore  he  was 
going  to  whip  us  individually  and  collectively,  as  soon  as  he  got 
dressed.  As  he  was  big  and  strong  we  thought  discretion  the 
better  part  of  valor  so  by  the  time  he  got  his  knots  untied  we 
were  dressed  and  gone  and  he  was  all  alone  in  his  glory. 

The  next  great  swimming  hole  was  the  "Arsenal,"  at  the  foot 
of  La  Branch  Street.  It  got  its  name  from  the  fact  that  in  early 
days  there  was  a  fort  and  arsenal  there,  though  both  had  dis- 
appeared long  before  my  time.  The  "Arsenal"  was  very  wide 
and  very  deep  and  only  the  best  swimmers  ever  went  in  there. 
It  was  strictly  a  big  boys'  place  and  they,  knowing  the  danger, 
took  good  care  to  drive  all  small  boys  and  poor  swimmers  away. 
The  big  boys  vied  with  each  other  in  diving,  swimming  and 
other  aquatic  feats.  One  of  the  great  diving  feats  was  to  crawl 
into  the  water  on  one  side,  disappear,  swim  along  the  bottom 
and  come  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  bayou.  I  have  seen  this 
attempted  by  hundreds  of  boys,  but  remember  only  one  who  could 
accomplish  it  with  ease.  His  name  was  John  Hale.  He  was 
an  expert  swimmer  and  while  still  a  boy  jumped  off  one  of  the 
bayou  steamboats  and  saved  the  life  of  a  negro  man  who  had 
either  fallen  or  been  knocked  off  the  boat. 

When  I  think  of  those  happy,  care-free  days  I  have  a  sincere 
pity  for  the  modern  Houston  boy  who  goes  bathing  in  a  con- 
crete tank,  hunting  and  fishing  in  an  automobile  and  what  is 
worse  than  all,  has  to  put  on  a  bathing  suit  when  he  goes  swim- 
ming. Times  have  degenerated  awfully  and  Houston  and  Buffalo 
Bayou  have  led  in  the  degeneracy. 


IN   SAN   ANGELO. 

I     am  afraid  I  got  myself  into  serious  business  by  telling  those 
Le  Mott  stories,  for  at  least  a  dozen  of  my  friends  have 
been  doing  the  Oliver  Twist  act  and  asking  for  more.  Even 
two  of  my  lady  friends  asked  me  to  please  tell  those  two  stories 
Mr.  Le  Mott  spoke  of,  "Farmer  Joe"  and  "Old  Fish."     Of  course, 
I  can  not  tell  the  stories  as  Le  Mott  tells  them.     He  is  an  artist 
in  that  line  and  one  of  the  greatest  charms  about  his  storytelling 
is  the  fact  that  when  he  becomes  interested  he  drops  into  the 
habits  of  all  old  sports  and  speaks  of  everything  in  the  present 
tense.     Le  Mott  has  to  he  heard  to  be  appreciated. 

"Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the  Old  Gray  Front  Saloon  in  San 
Angelo?"  he  asked  me  one  day.  "San  Angelo  was  the  biggest 
thing  in  the  biggest  county  in  the  biggest  State  in  the  Union, 
and  the  Gray  Front  was  the  biggest  thing  in  San  Angelo.  It 
was  a  single-story  adobe  building,  but  what  it  lacked  in  height 
it  made  up  in  length,  for  it  was  fully  70  feet  long.  There  were 
three  fellows  running  it.  "Farmer  Joe"  deals  monte  for  the  Mexi- 
cans up  in  front.  "Frenchy"  deals  faro  bank  in  the  rear,  while 


218 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Billy,  "the  bouncer,"  deals  whiskey  for  everybody  over  a  board 
counter  that  takes  up  nearly  one  whole  side  of  the  house.  Billy 
got  his  name  of  "Bouncer"  from  a  habit  he  had  of  butting  into 
every  fight  that  got  started,  not  playing  any  favorites,  but  chok- 
ing off  both  parties  engaged  in  battle.  This  habit  of  Billy's 
does  not  lead  to  peace;  it  leads  the  other  way,  for  gents,  even 
timid  ones,  felt  safe  to  start  war  when  they  knew  Billy  was 
going  to  put  a  stop  to  it  at  the  very  jump. 

"Now,  'Farmer  Joe'  was  no  more  of  a  farmer  than  you  are. 
He  gets  his  name  from  a  habit  he  has  of  wearing  his  hair  and 
beard  long.  He  was  the  most  peaceful  man  on  earth.  He  hated 
a  row  worse  than  any  one  and  when  war  was  declared  by  any- 
body he  would  not  stay  and  witness  it,  he  was  so  peace-loving. 
He  was  so  gun-shy  it  was  painful,  and  whenever  two  gentlemen 
started  to  argue  with  their  artillery,  Joe  would  leave  the  room 
even  if  he  had  to  do  the  sash  act  in  order  to  get  out.  You  un- 
derstand that  the  sash  act  was  going  out  of  the  window  in  so 
great  a  hurry  as  to  take  sash  and  all  with  you. 

"As  I  have  said,  Joe  deals  monte  for  the  Mexicans  in  the 
front  part  of  the  building.  He  is  not  very  strong  financially,  his 
bank  roll  being  only  about  $40.  The  Mexicans  know  Joe  is  peace- 
ful and  they  make  him  take  a  heap  of  their  sass,  for  they  know 
Joe  would  rather  have  abuse  than  a  fight  any  time.  I  call  to 
mind  one  of  the  funniest  things  I  ever  witnessed  in  which  Joe 
played  a  leading  part.  There  is  a  little  consumptive  Mexican 
playing  against  his  game.  A  dispute  comes  up  between  them. 
The  Mexican  is  very  sassy.  Joe  sees  Billy  standing  near  and 
knowing  he  will  stop  the  fight,  he  concludes  to  soak  the  Mexican 
one  for  luck.  He  bats  the  Mexican.  The  Mexican  don't  know 
anything  about  fighting  and  goes  for  Joe  like  a  woman.  He 
grabs  him  by  the  hair  with  one  hand  and  by  the  beard  with 
the  other.  Then  he  begins  to  pick  Joe  the  same  as  if  he  is  a 
chicken.  He  swipes  a  handful  of  hair  out  of  Joe's  face  and 
another  handful  out  of  his  head.  In  a  minute  he  has  Joe  look- 
ing like  a  cross  between  a  half-picked  chicken  and  a  dog  with 
mange.  At  the  first  start  Billy  comes  round  from  behind  the 
bar  to  interfere,  but  changes  his  mind  and  stands  there  viewing 
the  battle.  It  shore  was  a  funny  battle,  too.  They  sways  this 
way  and  they  sways  that  way  and  finally  they  sways  against 
Joe's  table  and  upsets  it,  scattering  his  bank  roll  all  over  the 
floor.  The  other  Mexicans,  seeing  everybody  watching  the  fight, 
went  for  the  money,  and  Joe  told  me  afterward  that  he  did  not 
get  but  about  $8  of  it  back  after  the  war  was  over. 

"'Don't  that  beat  hell?'  says  Joe,  looking  at  me  when  he  and 
the  Mexican  drops  loose  from  each  other  because  they  were 
out  of  wind  and  could  go  no  longer,  'Don't  that  beat  hell?  Here 
I  been  for  three  years.  There's  been  more'n  five  hundred  fights 
started  durin'  that  time  and  this  is  the  first  one  Billy  ever  let 
go  to  a  finish.' 

"I  wanted  to  laugh,  but  I  held  in  because  I  saw  tears  in  Joe's 
eyes.  Being  pulled  to  pieces  that  way  by  a  consumptive  Mexi- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS     219 

can  goes  hard  with  him.  That  Mexican  did  lots  to  him,  for  he 
don't  leave  but  one  little  patch  of  beard  on  his  face,  and  Joe's 
head  looked  like  a  whole  tribe  of  Indians  had  been  scalping  him. 
"But  'Frenchy'  is  the  big  man  of  the  works  in  the  Gray  Front. 
He  deals  faro  bank.  They  call  him  'Frenchy,'  though  why  they 
do  so  I  never  could  understand.  His  place  is  away  back  near 
the  stove,  where  it  is  warm  and  comfortable.  He  ain't  got  no 
box  but  deals  out  of  his  hand.  He  shuffles  up  the  cards,  shows 
the  soda  card,  and  then,  turning  them  face  down,  proceeds  to 
deal.  It's  a  good  way,  too,  and  he  has  a  game  going  nearly  all 
the  time. 

"One  night  two  fellows  come  in  and  buck  against  him.  They 
have  only  passable  luck.  The  next  night  they  both  come  again, 
but  only  one  of  them  plays.  Soon  one  of  them  disappears.  No- 
body notices  where  he  goes  at  the  time,  but  it  develops  after- 
ward that  he  goes  under  the  table,  where  he  can  look  up  and 
see  the  cards  Frenchy  is  holding  in  his  hand,  face  down.  He 
and  his  partner  has  signals,  so  the  bank  loses  pretty  constantly. 
After  a  while  the  stranger  who  is  playing  makes  a  funny  kind 
of  bet  on  the  nine  and  wins,  of  course.  This  excites  Frenchy's 
suspicion  and,  placing  the  cards  on  the  table  and  putting  a  stack 
of  chips  on  them,  he  leans  back  so  he  can  see  under  the  table. 
There  he  sees  the  legs  of  the  stranger's  partner. 

"Frenchy  says  nothing,  but  reaching  over  to  the  pile  of  cord- 
wood  that's  there  for  the  stove,  he  selects  a  good  big  stick. 
There's  deep  silence,  for  nobody  knows  what's  up.  The  fellow 
under  the  table  must  have  been  a  mind  reader,  or  he  has  good 
instincts  for  danger;  anyway,  he  knows  something's  wrong  and 
he  makes  a  break  for  freedom.  He  upsets  everybody  sitting 
in  front  of  the  table  and  starts  for  the  front  door.  It's  a  long* 
run  but  he  wastes  no  time.  The  front  door  is  a  screen  that 
swings  back.  He  reaches  it  and  just  as  he  does  Frenchy's  stick 
of  wood  reaches  him.  It  catches  him  in  the  small  of  the  back, 
doubles  him  up  and  assists  him  through  the  door.  As  he  emerges 
he  collides  with  a  man  who  is  just  entering  and  they  both  go 
down  together.  The  stranger  gets  up  first  and  starts  for  the 
door. 

"'Come  back;    don't  go  in   there,'   shouts   the  fellow  on  the 
ground. 

"  'Why  not?'  asks  the  man. 

"  'Because,'  says  the  fellow,   'they  are  playing  faro  bank  in 
there  and  paying  off  with  cordwood.     I  don't  win  but  one  bet. 
If  I  had  whipsawed  them  they  would  have  killed  me'." 
*  *  * 

FAMOUS  STREET  DUEL. 

EVERYBODY   remembers     Matt    Woodlief.     Some    because 
during  his  lifetime  he  inspired  them  with  dread  and  fear, 
for  he  was  a  typical  desperado  and  killer,  and  others  with 
feelings  of  gratitude,  for  he  was  charitable  and  generous  and  his 
purse  was  always  open  to  an  appeal  from  the  needy.     Matt  must 


220 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

have  been  a  "throwback,"  and  some  one  of  his  warlike  ancestors 
must  have  come  back  in  him,  for  there  was  nothing  in  the  his- 
tory of  his  immediate  family  to  account  for  him.  His  father 
was  a  leading  physician  of  the  state  and  the  whole  Woodlief 
family  was  one  of  the  best  and  most  prominent  in  Texas.  All 
its  members,  with  the  exception  of  Matt,  were  peaceable,  law- 
abiding  citizens,  and  there  is  no  way  of  accounting  for  such  a 
volcano  as  Matt  breaking  out  among  them  except  to  assume 
that  he  was  a  "throwback." 

Matt  had  a  reputation  for  cool  courage  and  desperate  bravery 
second  to  none  of  his  dangerous  associates,  and  when  it  is  said 
that  those  associates  were  such  men  as  Ben  Thompson,  King 
Fisher  and  a  number  of  similar  characters,  the  full  meaning  of 
this  assertion  can  be  understood.  He  was  a  very  handsome  fel- 
low. Tall,  with  hair  and  mustache  inclined  to  be  blonde  and 
with,  what  is  so  common  among  desperadoes,  steel  gray  eyes. 
His  manners  were  those  of  a  gentleman;  he  dressed  well  and 
with  good  taste,  and  no  one,  merely  meeting  and  conversing 
with  him,  would  ever  have  taken  him  for  a  desperate  character. 

For  years  he  lived  at  various  points  in  the  interior — at  Austin, 
San  Antonio,  Columbus  and  other  places — but  in  1873  he  came 
to  Houston  to  make  this  his  home.  He  was  a  professional  gam- 
bler and  before  he  moved  to  Houston  had  nearly  always  owned 
and  operated  a  gambling  house.  When  he  came  here,  however, 
he  made  no  effort  to  open  a  game  himself,  though  he  had  money 
and  could  have  gotten  all  he  wanted  had  he  needed  it,  but  con- 
tented himself  with  playing  against  the  games  of  others.  Luck 
was  against  him  and  he  lost  heavily.  Then  he  got  to  drinking 
from  time  to  time,  and  as  whiskey  always  made  him  a  fiend, 
everybody  kept  out  of  his  way  when  he  went  on  a  spree. 

There  was  one  exception  to  this.  At  that  time  there  was  a 
little  fellow  here  who  was  chief  of  police  and  if  he  ever  kept  out 
of  anybody's  way  or  ever  wanted  to  keep  out  of  anybody's  way 
no  one  ever  heard  of  it.  He  was  Alex  Erichson,  the  coolest, 
bravest  man  I  ever  knew.  I  saw  him  right  after  he  had  killed 
a  man  one  day  and  if  he  was  any  more  excited  or  agitated  than 
his  six-shooter  with  which  he  had  done  the  killing  there  was  no 
evidence  of  it.  One  day  Matt  got  to  drinking,  and  soon  got  to 
raising  a  rough  house  in  a  saloon.  Alex  Erichson  heard  of  it 
and  went  there  to  arrest  Matt.  He  walked  in  on  him  and  told 
him  he  was  under  arrest.  Matt  was  not  so  drunk  that  he  did 
not  recognize  the, danger  and  folly  of  resisting  an  officer  in  the 
discharge  of  his  duty,  so  he  submitted  and  handed  over  his  pistol. 
Erichson  took  him  down  to  the  police  station  and  allowed  him  to 
stay  in  the  front  room  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  some  friend 
Matt  had  sent  for  to  go  on  his  bond. 

During  the  delay  Matt  had  time  to  think  over  the  situation 
and  he  began  to  feel  the  humiliation  of  his  position.  This  made 
him  angry  and  he  began  to  abuse  Erickson  for  having  arrested 
him  and  to  express  regret  that  he  had  submitted  to  it  and  had 
given  up  his  pistol.  His  language  was  very  personal  and  finally 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS          221 

Erickson,  forgetting  that  he  was  an  officer  and  Woodlief  a  pris- 
oner, lost  his  temper  and  told  Woodlief  exactly  what  he  thought 
of  him.  He  did  not  use  Sunday  school  language  in  doing  so, 
either.  Just  then  Woodlief's  friends  arrived,  the  bond  was  given 
and  he  was  released.  So  soon  as  he  was  free  he  walked  up  to 
Erickson,  and,  pointing  his  finger  in  his  face,  said:  "You  - 
little  Dutch  -  — ,  I'm  going  to  kill  you  before  night 

for  what  you  have  said  to  me."  Erickson  sneered  in  his  face 
and  told  him  to  pop  his  whip  whenever  he  got  ready.  Matt  left 
and  going  to  a  gunsmith,  purchased  a  Colt's  six-shooter,  his  own 
being  locked  up  in  Erickson's  safe  at  police  headquarters.  Po- 
lice headquarters  at  that  time  was  down  on  a  side  street,  one 
block  below  Milam  Street.  Erickson  was  detained  there  for 
some  time  by  his  duties  and  then  walked  toward  Main  Street. 
As  he  got  to  the  corner  of  Main  Street  and  Preston  Avenue  he 
saw  Matt  Woodlief  on  the  northeast  corner  and  Matt  saw  him 
at  the  same  time.  Each  drew  his  pistol  and  began  advancing, 
firing  as  they  advanced.  When  each  was  about  twenty  feet 
from  their  respective  corners  they  fell.  By  a  strange  coincidence 
each  had  been  shot  through  the  thigh  and  the  bone  had  been 
shattered.  Their  wounds  were  identical.  They  fell,  but  that 
did  not  stop  the  fight,  for  they  began  dragging  themselves  toward 
each  other,  shooting  as  they  advanced.  Neither  of  them  spoke 
a  word  as  they  slowly  writhed  along  the  street,  getting  closer 
and  closer  and  shooting  all  the  time.  Both  were  noted  shots, 
but  somehow,  after  the  two  shots  that  had  brought  them  to  the 
ground,  all  the  bullets  went  astray.  Finally  their  ammunition 
was  exhausted  and  the  crowd  rushed  in  and  they  were  borne  away 
and  placed  in  the  hands  of  surgeons.  After  weeks  of  suffering 
both  recovered,  though  each  was  left  a  cripple  for  life. 

Woodlief  was  tried  in  the  criminal  court  on  a  charge  of  assault 
with  intent  to  murder.  The  evidence  was  very  clear  and  full 
against  him,  but  the  jury  saw  fit  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  aggra- 
vated assault  and  battery  and  assess  the  punishment  at  a  fine  of 
$250.  When  Erickson  heard  the  verdict  he  lost  his  head  again 
and  allowed  his  temper  to  get  away  with  him.  I  heard  him  tell 
one  of  Woodlief's  witnesses,  quite  a  prominent  young  man,  that 

he  was  a  perjured and  that  he   (Erickson)   would  not 

believe  him  on  oath,  and  then,  turning  to  Sheriff  Con  Noble,  he 
expressed  the  wish  that  Woodlief  would  beat  him  out  of  the 
fine.  He  was  as  game  as  a  fighting  cock  and  as  vindictive  and 
unforgiving  as  an  Indian.  Woodlief  remained  in  Houston  for 
some  time  after  his  trial  and  then  went  to  St.  Charles,  La.,  where 
he  committed  suicide.  I  say  he  committed  suicide,  for  that  is 
just  what  he  did,  though,  perhaps,  not  exactly  in  the  orthodox 
way.  Jrhese  are  the  circumstances:  He  and  one  of  his  friends 
had  been  drinking  and  cutting  up.  His  friend  was  arrested  and 
put  in  jail  for  an  offense  which  Woodlief  claimed  that  he  himself 
had  committed.  He  sent  word  to  the  officers  that  if  his  friend 
was  not  released  by  a  certain  hour,  let  us  say  2  o'clock,  he  was 
coming  down  to  the  jail  and  take  him  out  himself.  Woodlief's 


222 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

reputation  was  such  that  the  officers  knew  he  would  at  least 
try  to  carry  out  his  threat,  so  they  swore  in  some  deputies  and 
placed  a  strongly  armed  guard  in  front  of  the  jail.  Promptly  on 
time  Woodlief  showed  up,  smoking  a  long  stem  pipe.  He  ad- 
vanced to  within  20  feet  of  where  the  guard  was  standing.  Then 
waving  his  hand  and  ordering  them  to  stand  aside  he  reached 
for  his  pistol.  The  next  moment  he  fell  dead,  pierced  by  a  num- 
ber of  balls,  for  the  guard  literally  riddled  his  body.  If  that 
was  not  committing  suicide,  what  was  it? 

Like  most  of  the  gun  fighters  who  were  not  taken  off  in  their 
prime,  Woodlief  deteriorated  toward  the  end,  but  the  deteriora- 
tion was  physical  and  moral  only,  for  his  gameness  stayed  with 
him  to  the  last  and  he  died  as  he  had  lived,  without  fear  of 
God  or  man. 

*  *  * 

FAMOUS  FOR  MUD. 

I  SAW  some  workmen  repairing  the  pavement  on  Main  Street 
the  other  day  and  it  occurred  to  me  what  a  vast  difference 
there  is  between  the  streets  of  today  and  those  of  thirty 
years  ago.  At  that  time  Houston  was  justly  famed  for  its  mud. 
There  was  considerable  traffic  on  Main,  Preston,  Congress  and 
other  streets  in  the  business  part  of  town  and  also  on  some  of 
the  side  streets,  and  as  there  were  no  pavements,  when  it  rained 
everything  fairly  bogged  down.  The  mud,  too,  was  not  the  milk 
and  water  slush  we  have  today,  but  was  the  genuine  old-fashioned 
thing  and  was  so  outrageous  that  the  Houstonians  actually  got 
to  be  proud  of  it,  just  as  the  old  gun  fighters  were  proud  of 
their  wicked  records. 

Every  winter  was  bad  enough,  but  that  of  1879-80  carried  off 
the  prize  for  outrageousness.  About  the  middle  of  October  it 
commenced  to  rain  and  kept  it  up  until  the  middle  of  November. 
Then  "the  oldest  citizen"  and  the  weather  prophet  showed  up 
and  announced  that  it  would  rain  for  forty  days  and  nights,  and 
then  commenced  a  new  deal  just  as  though  it  had  never  even 
sprinkled  before  that.  The  forty-first  and  fifty-first  days  were 
worse  than  any  that  had  preceded  them  and  it  began  to  look  as 
if  it  were  never  going  to  stop  raining. 

Now,  weather  such  as  that  would  be  pretty  bad  today,  so  one 
can  imagine  what  it  was  then  with  no  paved  streets  nor  side- 
walks. Drays,  buggies,  wagons  and  other  vehicles  bogged  down 
on  the  business  streets  and  were  left  there  to  be  dug  out  later 
when  they  could  be  moved  without  fear  of  having  them  bog 
down  on  the  next  block.  Finally  it  got  so  bad  that  only  the 
most  imperative  necessity  would  make  people  venture  out  in  a 
carriage  or  buggy.  One  or  two  public  hacks  would  get  out  occa- 
sionally, but  it  cost  about  as  much  to  ride  in  one  of  these  for, 
say  a  mile,  as  it  would  cost  today  to  go  to  New  Orleans. 

Right  in  the  middle  of  all  this  magnificent  weather  the  Z.  Z. 
Club  concluded  to  give  its  annual  ball.  Giving  the  ball  was 
easy  enough,  but  getting  the  ladies  there  and  home  again  with- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 223 

out  drowning  them  or  smothering  them  in  mud  was  another  thing. 
I  am  not  certain,  but  I  believe  it  was  Chief  Coyle  who  solved  the 
problem.  He  sent  for  Theodore,  the  most  responsible  hack 
driver  in  Houston,  and  consulted  with  him.  The  two  together 
evolved  a  plan  that  worked  like  a  charm.  Chief  Coyle  prepared 
a  list  of  the  young  ladies  and  their  escorts  and  had  all  the 
young  gentlemen  meet  at  Gray's  Hall  early  in  the  evening. 
About  7  o'clock  Theodore  came  'round  from  Preston  Avenue 
driving  six  yoke  of  oxen  hitched  to  an  omnibus.  He  got  the 
omnibus  from  Westheimer's  .stable,  but  where  he  got  the  oxen 
I  never  did  know.  Theodore  had  the  list  of  the  young  ladies  and 
had  mapped  out  his  route.  The  young  men  boarded  the  omni- 
bus and  the  procession  started.  One  by  one  the  young  ladies 
were  picked  up  and  within  an  hour  or  two  everybody  was  safely 
in  the  ball  room.  Everybody  enjoyed  the  ride  as  much  as  the 
ball  and  it  was  a  perfect  success  in  every  way.  Theodore  is 
still  living. in  Houston  and  is  as  proud  of  that  ox  team  drive 
today  as  he  ever  was.  He  is  about  the  only  hack  driver  who 
ever  took  ladies  and  gentlemen  to  a  ball  in  a  vehicle  drawn  by 
oxen. 

But  everything  was  not  quite  as  novel  and  enjoyable  as  that 
drive  was.  Dr.  Charley  Owens,  who  had  charge  of  the  City 
Hospital,  located  on  McKinney  Avenue  and  Austin  Street,  was 
called  out  of  the  city  and  got  me  to  take  charge  of  the  institu- 
tion during  his  absence.  One  evening  a  messenger  from  the  H. 
&  T.  C.  railway  office  brought  a  note  asking  that  a  surgeon  meet 
the  incoming  train  with  a  carriage  to  take  charge  of  a  man  who 
had  broken  his  leg.  There  were  no  ambulances  in  those  days. 
I  got  Jim  Slavin's  hack  but  could  not  get  Jim  to  drive  it,  as  he 
was  sick.  I  met  the  train  and  got  the  injured  man  in  the  hack, 
fixed  up  as  comfortable  as  possible,  and  we  started  for  the  hos- 
pital. Everything  went  smoothly  until  we  were  crossing  Acad- 
emy Square.  Here  the  front  wheels  went  into  a  deep  hole  and 
the  sudden  lurch  threw  the  driver  off  on  top  of  the  horses  and 
he  bounded  off  in  the  mud.  He  scared  the  horses  so  badly  that 
they  bolted  and  went  out  Rusk  Avenue  like  skyrockets.  For- 
tunately the  poor  fellow  with  the  broken  leg  fainted  at  the  first 
dash  out  of  the  box,  so  he  was  spared  a  lot  of  pain  and  suffering. 
The  hack  was  up  in  the  air  one  moment  and  several  feet  down 
in  the  mud  the  next.  Those  horses  must  have  been  almost 
scared  to  death  to  keep  up  the  pace  they  did.  Finally  after 
going  about  four  blocks  the  mud  conquered  and  they  stopped. 
I  was  wondering  what  I  should  do  and  was  preparing  to  get  out 
and  try  to  drive  the  hack  to  the  hospital,  when  the  driver 
showed  up.  He  beat  anything  I  ever  saw.  He  did  not  look  like 
a  human  being  at  all.  I  could  scarcely  tell  that  he  was  a  man 
at  all,  he  was  so  disguised  in  mud.  How  he  carried  the  load  he 
had  on  him  was  a  mystery.  There  was  nothing  broken,  so  he 
got  on  the  box  and  we  drove  back  to  the  hospital.  I  am  willing 
to  bet  that  the  man  with  the  broken  leg  never  forgot  that  ride. 
I  don't  think  the  driver  ever  did  and  I  know  I  never  will. 


224 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

OLD    MAN    LAKEN. 

OF  ALL  the  remarkable  characters  who  lived  in  Houston 
in  the  early  days  "Old  Man"  Laken  occupied  a  place 
very  near  the  head  of  the  class.  He  was  the  most 
serious  man  I  ever  knew.  I  don't  think  anybody  ever  saw  him 
even  smile,  let  alone  laugh,  and  I  am  sure  I  never  did.  He  had 
been  a  policeman,  a  jailer  or  private  watchman  all  his  life,  and 
having  occupied  only  subordinate  positions,  he  did  not  know 
anything  except  to  obey  orders.  Being  old  and  somewhat  feeble, 
Marshal  I.  C.  Lord  always  gave  the  old  fellow  an  easy  berth  at 
police  headquarters  and  his  principal  duty  was  to  keep  order  in 
the  recorder's  court.  During  his  long  career  as  a  policeman  and 
jailer  it  had  fallen  to  his  lot  to  kill  several  men  and  no  enthu- 
siastic hunter  ever  displayed  greater  pride  in  telling  of  the 
game  he  had  bagged  than  did  "Old  Man"  Laken  when  telling  of 
what  he  had  done  in  the  killing  line.  He  did  not  speak  of  them 
often,  but  when  he  did  his  face  showed  the  only  animation  that 
was  ever  seen  on  it.  ' 

"You  see,  it  was  this  way,"  he  said  to  me  one  morning,  describ- 
ing an  attempted  jail  delivery.  "I'm  all  alone  in  the  jail,  when 
one  of  them  fellows  puts  up  a  holler  and  says  he  wants  a  doctor, 
for  he  is  sick.  I  goes  to  the  cell  and  peeps  in.  He's  stretched 
out  on  the  floor  and  is  all  doubled  up,  and  when  he  sees  me  he 
begs  for  water.  Thinkin'  he's  sick  shore*  enough,  I  opens  the 
door  and  steps  in.  Just  as  I  gits  in  the  other  fellow,  who  is 
on  one  side,  slugs  me  good  and  hard  behind  the  ear  and  knocks 
me  down.  Before  I  can  git  up  both  of  'em  is  on  top  of  me  and 
begins  chokin'  me  to  keep  me  from  hollerin'.  Then  they  throw 
me  in  the  bunk  and  piles  all  the  bed  clothes  over  my  head  and 
sits  on  top  of  the  pile  to  smother  me.  Before  they  throw  me  in 
the  bunk  they  takes  my  gun  and  my  keys.  They  nearly  smother 
me,  but  I  manages  to  git  my  nose  where  I  can  breathe  a  little. 
I  see  what  their  game  is,  so  after  a  little  kickin'  I  laid  right 
still  and  they  got  up  and  went  out  in  the  corridor.  They  went 
to  the  big  door  and  unlocked  it  and  went  out  in  the  yard.  There 
was  a  big  fence  and  as  the  sheriff  always  carried  the  key  to 
the  door  of  that  they  knew  I  did  not  have  it  and  got  ready  to 
climb  the  fence.  The  fence  was  about  eighteen  feet  high,  but 
they  got  a  pole  and  one  of  'em  clim  up  and  dropped  down  on 
the  outside.  I  had  got  up  and  had  got  one  of  them  old  boss 
pistols,  the  only  thing  I  could  find,  and  was  watchin'  'em. 
When  the  first  fellow  got  over,  the  other  one  commenced  climbin' 
the  pole.  He  was  the  fellow  who  had  knocked  me  down  and  I 
wanted  to  git  him  bad.  I  slipped  out  and  got  right  behind  him, 
but  he  was  too  busy  to  see  me,  but  just  kept  on  climbin',  I 
waited  until  he  got  to  the  top  of  the  wall  and  then  I  raised  my 
pistol.  It  was  so  heavy  I  had  to  hold  it  in  both  hands.  I  took 
good  aim  and  made  the  best  shot  I  ever  made  in  my  life.  I  got 
him  right  in  the  middle  of  the  back  of  his  head  and  that  fellow 
don't  know  till  yet  what  happened  to  him.  We  caught  the  other 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 225 

fellow  that  evening,  but  I  could  never  get  a  chance  to  shoot 
him,  for  he  would  never  give  me  an  excuse  to  do  it." 

"But,  captain,"  said  I,  for  I  always  called  him  captain,  and 
he  liked  it.  "But,  captain,  why  did  you  not  catch  him  instead 
of  killing  him?  You  could  have  done  so  easily." 

He  did  not  like  my  suggestion' and  answered  a  bit  hotly: 

"Because  I  didn't  want  to  catch  him.  Wasn't  I  hired  to  work 
for  the  best  interests  of  this  community,  and  that's  what  I  done. 
If  I'd  made  him  come  back  there  would  have  been  his  board 
and  then  his  trial  would've  cost  a  lot  more.  I  plugs  him  in  the 
back  of  the  head.  It  costs  about  $15  to  plant  him  and  there  you 
are.  Look  at  the  money  I  save  the  community." 

Being  a  policeman  was  second  nature  with  the  old  man  and 
though  he  married  a  widow,  who  owned  a  snug  little  farm  near 
town,  and  the  old  man  could  have  lived  in  comparative  ease  the 
rest  of  his  life,  he  hung  on  to  his  job  to  the  last.  The  old  man 
did  not  have  a  tooth  in  his  head  and  as  he  disdained  to  wear 
"stone  teeth,"  as  he  called  them,  his  nose  and  chin  nearly  met 
every  time  he  closed  down  on  his  quid  of  tobacco,  which  was 
all  the  time,  for  he  was  an  incessant  chewer. 

One  afternoon  Alex  Erichson  was  showing  Marshal  Lord  and 
a  few  other  gentlemen,  who  were  in  his  office,  a  Manhattan  six- 
shooter,  so  called  because  the  New  York  police  had  just  been 
armed  with  them.  After  admiring  the  pistol,  Marshal  Lord 
went  to  his  safe  and  brought  out  an  old  Allen  pistol,  also  known 
as  a  "pepper  box."  A  good  many  jokes  were  made  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  old  pistol,  but  old  man  Laken  took  up  for  it. 

"You  can  laugh  at  it  as  much  as  you  want,  but  all  the  same 
I  got  three  dagoes  with  one  of  them  pistols  over  in  New  Orleans 
one  night.  That  is,  I  got  two  right  there  and  the  other  one 
croaked  next  day  in  the  Charity  Hospital." 

Of  course,  he  was  pressed  for  particulars  and  told  the  follow- 
ing story: 

"It's  thirty  years  ago  and  I  was  a  watchman  at  one  of  the  big 
warehouses  on  the  levee.  I  noticed  three  dagoes  moseying  'round 
and  acting  queer,  so  I  watched  'em.  One  night  I  saw  'em  go 
in  an  old  shanty,  so  I  snuck  up  and  tried  to  get  a  peep  at  'em. 
I  could  see  'em  but  couldn't  hear  what  they  were  saying,  so  I 
snuck  around  back  of  the  house  where  there  was  a  window. 
There  I  could  hear  'em,  but  it  didn't  do  no  good,  for  they  were 
talking  dago,  and  I  didn't  understand  what  they  were  saying. 
While  I  was  trying  to  get  close  to  the  window  I  stepped  on  a 
bottle  and  liked  to  fell  down.  I  made  lots  of  fuss  trying  to 
catch  myself  and  the  dagoes  look  around  and  saw  me.  They 
jumped  up.  One  pulled  a  long  knife  and  another  made  a  dive 
at  the  candle  to  blow  it  out.  I  dropped  him  before  he  got  to 
it  and  the  other  two  ran  to  the  front  door  and  commenced  trying 
to  open  it.  I  ran  around  the  house  and  got  there  just  as  they 
came  out  of  the  door.  I  pulled  down  on  the  one  in  front  and 
got  him  and  then  I  lammed  it  to  the  other  one." 


226 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"Why,  you  old  murderer,"  said  some  one,  jokingly,  "it's  a 
wonder  they  did  not  hang  you  for  wholesale  murder.  How  came 
you  to  shoot  people  like  that?" 

"Well,  I  done  it  on  suspicion  and  I'm  dead  right,  too,  for  the 
one  that  died  in  the  hospital  comes  across  and  makes  a  clean 
breast  that  they  were  counterfeiters  the  government  is  trying  to 
catch.  I  didn't  have  anything  but  one  of  them  'pepper  box' 
pistols,  but  you  see  it  done  good  work  for  me." 

A  young  man  named  Gillespie  was  local  editor  on  the  Houston 
Telegraph  at  that  time  and  made  quite  a  feature  of  the  police 
court.  A  great  many  negroes  and  loafers  filled  the  court  room 
every  morning,  so  Marshal  Lord  issued  an  order  to  old  man 
Laken  to  keep  everybody  out  except  lawyers  and  witnesses.  The 
next  morning  the  old  man  took  a  stand  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs 
and  when  Gillespie  showed  up  he  refused  to  let  him  in.  Gil- 
lespie tried  to  argue  with  him,  but  it  was  no  use. 

"You  ain't  a  lawyer  and  you  ain't  a  witness  and  you  can't  get 
in.  So  don't  try,"  he  said. 

Finally  Gillespie  got  word  up  to  the  marshal  who  came  down 
and  let  him  in.  The  next  morning  Gillespie  had  a  humorous 
story  about  the  occurrence.  He  thought  nothing  of  it  and  was 
therefore  greatly  amazed  when  he  arrived  at  court  to  have  old 
man  Laken  come  up  and  whack  him  over  the  head  with  the  hick- 
ory stick  he  used  instead  of  a  club.  Of  course,  he  was  indig- 
nant and  demanded  an  explanation. 

"You've  done  plenty,"  said  the  old  man.  "I  won't  let  any  man 
call  me  a  brute  in  the  paper  or  anywhere  else." 

"I  never  called  you  a  brute,"  said  Gillespie. 

"The  hell  you  didn't,"  said  Laken.  "Here  it  is  as  plain  as 
printing,  and  it  is  printing,  too,"  and  he  pointed  to  the  heading 
of  the  article  which  was:  "Et  tu  Brute." 

Gillespie  explained  that  it  was  Latin  and  that  he  had  used  it 
for  the  purpose  of  expressing  his  sorrow  that  so  good  a  friend 
as  he  considered  Laken,  had  gone  back  on  him  even  for  a  few 
minutes  as  he  had  done  the  day  before.  That  settled  the  mat- 
ter and  they  were  as  good  friends  as  ever,  though  Gillespie  was 
careful  to  use  only  English  when  he  referred,  even  remotely,  to 
old  man  Laken  in  his  articles  after  that. 

Marshal  Lord,  who  is  now  ex-Mayor  Lord,  told  me  the  other  day 
that  old  man  Laken  died  several  years  ago.  He  said  the  only 
change  that  ever  took  place  in  the  old  man  was  that  his  chin 
and  nose  came  a  little  closer  together  when  he  chewed  and  that 
he  used  a  little  more  tobacco,  if  that  were  possible,  toward  the 
end.  There  was  only  one  old  man  Laken  and  there  can  never 
be  another  like  him. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 227 

TWO  FAMOUS  CHARACTERS. 

THERE  were  two  characters  in  Houston  in  the  early  days 
about  whom  I  would  like  some  information  and  I  hope 
that  if  this  is  seen  by  any  old-timer  he  will  supply  the 
missing  links.  I  remember  them  both  and  remember  the  name 
of  one,  but  can't  recall  the  name  of  the  other.  One  was  named 
Bgerly  and  he  was  a  man-about-town  kind  of  fellow.  If  he  had 
any  profession  or  calling  no  one  knew  it  and  to  come  right  down 
cases,  if  he  had  lived  in  modern  Houston  instead  of  primitive 
Houston  he  would  have  been  classed  as  a  "bum."  He  was  no 
bum,  though,  but  was  a  man  of  education  and  some  refinement, 
and  evidently  had  means  which  enabled  him  to  loaf,  which  he 
did  in  a  lordly  manner.  He  boarded  at  the  old  Hogan  House, 
which  occupied  the  half  block  opposite  the  north  side  of  market 
square,  and  his  favorite  loafing  place  was  at  the  ten-pin  alley 
adjoining  a  saloon  that  stood  on  the  corner  of  Main  and  Frank- 
lin Avenue,  opposite  the  present  First  National  Bank.  Egerly 
was  very  dignified  and  spoke  with  great  deliberation  as  if  weigh- 
ing every  word  he  uttered.  No  matter  how  drunk  he  got  he 
never  relaxed  his  dignity  nor  his  deliberation  of  speech.  All 
this  earned  for  him  a  nickname  and  he  was  known  to  everybody 
as  "Exact  Egerly."  If  the  stories  told  on  him  were  true  he  well 
deserved  the  name,  for  it  was  said  that  even  in  taking  his 
drinks  he  would  always  pour  out  just  the  right  quantity  he 
wanted.  If  by  chance  he  poured  out  too  much,  he  would  pour 
it  back  in  the  bottle  and  never  drink  until  he  had  the  exact 
amount.  Then,  too,  he  would  generally  have  the  exact  change 
to  pay  for  the  drinks  when  he  drank  alone  or  set  'em  up  for 
others.  Of  course,  some  of  the  stories  told  on  him  were  exag- 
gerations or  entire  fabrications,  but  many  were  true,  and  I 
think  it  is  safe  to  say  that  he  well  deserved  his  name.  I  don't 
know  anything  about  his  bar-room  manners,  for  I  never  saw  him 
take  a  drink,  but  I  recall  one  instance  of  his  exaction  of  speech 
which  came  near  ending  in  a  fight. 

At  that  time  there  was  a  lawyer  here  named  Tompkins.  He 
was  a  brilliant  man  and  in  spite  of  his  rather  wild  habits  stood 
pretty  near  the  head  of  the  bar.  After  the  termination  of  some 
hard-fought  case  in  court  he  would  seek  relaxation  at  the  faro 
table.  He  had  some  disease  which  had  made  his  bones  chalky 
and  consequently  very  brittle.  One  night  he  attempted  to  pick 
up  a  piece  of  money  from  the  faro  table  and  in  doing  so  he 
broke  two  of  his  fingers.  The  next  morning  Egerly  and  some 
others  were  standing  on  Main  Street  when  Captain  Bob  Boyce 
came  up. 

"Did  you  hear  about  Tompkins  breaking  two  of  his  fingers 
last  night  trying  to  pick  up  a  silver  dollar?"  he  asked. 

"Captain,"  said  Egerly,  with  his  usual  deliberation,  "you  are 
entirely  mistaken,  it  was  not  a  silver  dollar." 

"Well,  what  in  hell  was  it?"  asked  the  captain,  who  was  high 
tempered  and  quick  to  take  offense.  "What  was  it?'  Did  he 


228 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

try  to  pick  up  the  check-rack,  the  layout  or  what  was   it  he 
tried  to  do?" 

"It  was  not  a  silver  dollar  at  all,"  said  Egerly.  "I  was  a  wit- 
ness to  the  whole  affair.  It  was  a  five-franc  piece." 

Then  Captain  Boyce  lost  his  temper  completely. 

"That  makes  a  hell  of  a  difference,"  he  shouted.  "Whether  it 
was  a  dollar  or  95  cents,  he  tried  to  pick  up,  cuts  a  heap  of  im- 
portance. Egerly,  you  are  a  damned  fool." 

That  was  too  much,  and  Egerly  stripped  for  action  at  once,  but 
friends  got  between  them  and  prevented  a  fight. 

I  remember  Egerly  being  in  Houston  up  to  the  beginning  of 
the  war.  No  doubt  he  went  in  the  army.  Anyway,  he  disap- 
peared and  though  I  have  often  thought  of  him  I  have  never  seen 
him  since.  I  hope  some  oldtimer  whose  memory  is  better  than 
mine  may  know  and  tell  some  further  facts  about  him. 

The  other  man,  whose  name  I  forget,  was  the  most  curious 
specimen  of  humanity  I  ever  saw  and  was  of  a  type  which  has 
become  impossible  and  therefore  extinct  today.  He  was  the  op- 
posite of  Egerly  in  every  way,  for  he  had  no  education  or  refine- 
ment and  was  simply  a  bum  and  nothing  else.  Strange  to  say, 
he  was  popular  and  everybody  knew  and  liked  him.  He  was 
born  with  a  flat  place  on  his  head  where  the  bump  of  reverence 
is  located,  according  to  the  phrenologists,  and  he  placed  the 
highest  and  the  lowest  in  the  land  on  the  same  footing.  To  him 
Mr.  William  M.  Rice  was  "Billy;"  Mr.  Bremond  was  "Paul;" 
Mr.  Shepherd  was  "Ben,"  and  so  on  down  the  line.  That,  how- 
ever, might  be  construed  as  simply  a  bad  case  of  gall  and  im- 
pertinence, but  he  had  other  qualities  that  distinguished  him 
above  his  fellow  citizens.  He  was  the  most  reckless  man  I  ever 
saw,  and  was  constantly  doing  things  that  would  have  killed 
anybody  else.  But  he  seemed  to  have  a  charmed  life  and  always 
pulled  through  safely.  One  night  in  the  old  Houston  House  bar, 
down  on  Franklin  Avenue,  he  provoked  a  gentleman  who  had 
just  landed  from  the  steamboat  from  Galveston  and  who  was  an 
entire  stranger  to  him,  to  such  an  extent  that  the  gentleman  took 
out  his  bowie  knife  and  nearly  severed  his. head  from  his  body. 
They  laid  him  out  on  the  floor  and  the  doctors  came  in,  looked 
him  over  and  gave  him  half  an  hour  to  live.  At  the  end  of  the 
half  hour  he  was  still  alive,  so  they  hauled  him  off  to  a  room 
somewhere.  He  was  laid  up  for  a  long  time  but  finally  got  well. 
Now  I  will  tell  you  of  his  recklessness. 

In  those  days  the  steamboats  would  come  to  near  the  foot  of 
Main  Street  and  discharge  their  cargoes.  The  bayou  was  not 
quite  wide  enough  for  them  to  turn,  so  they  had  to  go  up  a  little 
further,  back  into  White  Oak  Bayou,  then  haul  the  bow  around 
and  thus  head  down  stream  again.  During  this  performance  it 
was  necessary  to  attach  a  line  to  a  big  cypress  stump  that  stood 
on  the  bank  of  the  bayou  some  distance  beyond  the  mouth  of 
White  Oak  Bayou,  so  as  to  hold  the  bow  of  the  boat  in  proper 
position  while  backing  into  White  Oak,  and  then  to  use  a  tree 
further  down  stream  when  turning  'round,  so  as  to  head  down 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 229 

stream.    In  time  the  big  stump  became  greatly  worn  and  finally 
almost  useless,  so  it  was  determined  to  remove  it  and  substitute 
a  post.     It  occupied  the  exact  spot  where  the  best  leverage  could 
be  obtained,  so  its  removal  was  absolutely  necessary.    It  was 
no  easy  thing  to  do,  so  after  much  cutting  and  digging  it  was 
decided  to  blow  it  up  with  gunpowder.    Holes  were  bored  in  the 
stump  and  these  were  filled  with  powder  and  a  fuse  was   at- 
tached.   About  twenty-five  pounds  of  powder  was  used  and  as  a 
big  explosion  was  looked  for,  everybody  ran  for  cover  when  the 
fuse  was  lighted.     The  fuse  sparkled  a  bit  and  then  apparently 
went  out,  but  a  minute  later  little  puffs  of  smoke  showed  it  was 
still  burning.     The  crowd  was  on  tiptoe  of  expectancy,  looking 
momentarily  for  the  big   explosion,  when   they  were  horrified 
to  see  this  man  I  speak  of  come  out  of  some  coffee  bean  weeds 
that  grew  on  the  bank  further  up  stream  and  walk  direct  to  the 
stump.     People  shouted  to  him  to  go  back  but  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion and  calmly  advanced,  puffing  a  big  cigar.     He  went  to  the 
stump  and,  finding  that  the  fuse  had  really  gone  out,  he  lighted 
it  with  his  cigar  and  stood  there  while  it  sputtered  and  went  out 
again.     Then  he  picked  up  the  fuse,  examined  it  and  threw  it  into 
the  bayou.    Kneeling  down,  he  raked  the  loose  powder  into  a 
train  and  coolly  touched  it  off  with  his  cigar.     There  was  a  ter- 
rible explosion  and  everything  in  the  vicinity  of  the  stump  was 
hidden  from  view  by  smoke.    When  it  cleared  away  the  chap 
was  flat  on  the  ground,  entirely  unhurt.    How  he  escaped  being 
killed  or  seriously  injured  was  a  miracle.    Now,  if  any  of  the  old 
timers,  and  there  are  lots  of  them  in  Houston,  more  than  I  ever 
dreamed  of,  remember  these  two  men  and  their  queer  doings 
they   can    give   The    Chronicle    some   very   interesting   reading 
matter. 

*  *  * 

HOUSTON'S  FOUR  BRICK  COURT  HOUSES. 

I     WAS  much  interested  in  a  discussion  that  took  place  yester- 
day afternoon  between  an  old  citizen  and  a  county  official, 
relative  to  the  court  house  history  of  Harris  County.    The 
old  citizen  contended  that  the  present  magnificent  building  is 
the  fourth  brick  court  house  that  has  been  erected  on  that  block. 
The  county  official  said  that  there  had  been  only  three  and  he 
could  prove  it  by  the  county  records. 

Now,  if  the  county  official  be  correct  the  county  records  are 
radically  wrong,  for  this  is  the  fourth  brick  building  that  has 
been  erected  there.  Long  before  my  day,  and  in  fact  before  the 
day  of  any  one  except  the  very,  very  old  settlers,  there  used  to 
be  a  frame  building  on  the  northwest  corner  of  the  square,  which 
was  the  original  court  house,  while  the  jail  was  another  frame 
building  on  the  southeast  corner.  In  the  early  40's  these  build- 
ings were  torn  down  and  a  small  two-story  brick  court  house 
was  erected  in  the  middle  of  the  block.  The  jail  was  located  at 
the  north  end  of  the  market  building,  which  was  a  long  frame 


230 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

house  extending  across  the  middle  of  the  block  from  Preston 
Avenue  to  Congress  Avenue  on  Market  Square. 

Court  House  Square  was  a  great,  place  then,  and  if  I  may 
borrow  from  the  geography  I  will  say  it  was  bounded  on  the 
north  by  the  residence  of  Wm.  M.  Rice  and  a  frame  postoffice; 
on  the  south  by  the  residences  of  Peter  Sampson  and  B.  W. 
Taylor;  on  the  east  by  Peter  Gable's  brewery  and  the  residence 
of  Cornelius  Ennis,  and  on  the  west  by  the  residences  of  Judge 
Peter  Gray  and  John  Brashear  and  a  number  of  law  offices. 
Messrs.  Tankersley,  Palmer,  Hamblen,  Manley,  Riley  and  others 
whose  names  escape  me  were  among  the  old  time  lawyers  who 
had  offices  there. 

I  remember  this  old,  first  brick  court  house  well,  for  it  seemed 
a  magnificent  building  then,  though  I  suppose  it  could  have  been 
placed  in  a  space  about  the  size  of  one  of  the  present  court 
rooms  in  the  building  of  today.  There  were  no  blinds  to  the 
windows  and  common  calico  curtains  were  used  instead.  As  a 
kid  I  went  through  the  lower  halls,  but  do  not  remember  to  have 
ever  ventured  to  the  second  floor.  I  do  remember  the  staircase 
and  the  cistern  that  was  built  under  the  building  and  in  which  a 
man  was  drowned.  All  the  neighbors  got  water  from  the  court 
house  cistern  in  that  day.  This  water  got  to  tasting  and  smell- 
ing bad  and  finally  an  investigation  revealed  the  dead  body  in 
the  cistern.  I  don't  know  whether  the  man  jumped  in  the  cistern 
or  whether  he  fell  in,  but  I  do  know  that  he  gave  those  court 
house  square  residents  cause  to  remember  him  for  some  time. 
Another  thing  I  remember  about  that  old  building  was  a  long 
rope  that  was  coiled  up  under  the  steps.  Doubtless  this  rope 
was  used  for  ordinary  purposes,  but  we  boys  always  looked  on 
it  with  the  most  profound  awe  and  respect  for  it  was  a  notorious 
fact  among  us  that  more  than  a  dozen  men  had  been  hanged 
with  it  and  that  the  sheriff  kept  it  in  a  convenient  place,  always 
ready  for  instant  use. 

A  year  or  two  before  the -war  that  old  building  became  so 
cracked  and  decayed  that  it  was  torn  down  and  another  larger 
brick  building  was  erected,  this  time  on  the  north  side  of  the 
square,  facing  Congress  Avenue.  This  building  had  a  basement 
and  two  stories  placed  on  that  making  it  practically  a  three- 
story  building.  This  building  was  scarcely  finished  when  the 
war  broke  out  and  during  the  war  the  basement  was  used  as  a 
guard  house  and  later  converted  into  a  receiving  prison  for 
Federals,  who  were  captured  at  Galveston,  Sabine  Pass  and 
other  points.  The  real  prison  was  located  just  this  side  of 
Hempstead  on  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central  Railway,  not  far 
from  Col,  Jarad  Groce's  residence,  now  used  as  a  colored  state 
school.  We  used  the  basement  of  the  court  house  to  lock  the 
Yankees  in  during  the  war,  but  after  the  war,  during  reconstruc- 
tion days,  they  turned  the  tables  and  locked  us  up  in  the  same 
place,  whenever  they  could  find  the  slightest  excuse  for  doing 
so.  Major  De  Gress  was  provost  marshal  and  ran  things  to  suit 
himself,  which  he  could  do  with  impunity,  seeing  he  had  the 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 231 

army  of  occupation  at  his  back.  Still  on  the  whole  he  did  what 
most  any  stickler  for  military  methods  would  have  done  were 
he  in  his  place,  for  he  had  rather  desperate  people  to  contend 
with  and  some  very  few  tough  citizens  as  well. 

Finally  this  old  court  house  outlived  its  usefulness  and  it  was 
decided  to  tear  it  down  and  erect  a  new  one  on  the  same  site. 
This  was  in  the  early  80's.  There  was  a  great  deal  of  opposi- 
tion to  the  new  court  house,  nor  was  this  opposition  confined 
to  the  taxpayers.  The  county  commissioners  were  by  no  means 
unanimous  in  its  favor.  They  fought  among  themselves  and 
finally  the  question  became  a  matter  of  debate  in  the  news- 
papers. I  remember  it  well  and  you  will  see  later  why  I  do. 
Colonel  Hamp  Cook  was  the  Houston  representative  of  the  Gal- 
veston  News  and  he  wrote  so  much  and  wrote  so  well  that  it 
was  not  long  before  both  he  and  The  News  became  factors  in 
the  fight.  The  discussions  became  somewhat  bitter  and  were 
verging  rapidly  on  the  coffee  and  pistol  stage  when  Colonel  Cook 
learned  that  one  of  the  commissioners  had  taken  the  warpath 
and  was  out  for  his  scalp.  The  colonel  came  to  me  and  told 
me  of  his  trouble  and  ended  by  borrowing  a  fine  Colt's  six- 
shooter  with  which  to  down  the  warlike  commissioner  on  sight. 
I  did  not  see  Colonel  Cook  for  a  week  or  ten  days  and  I  never  did 
see  my  pistol  again.  I  heard  afterward  that  the  two  had  met 
on  the  street  and  adjourned  to  Japhet's  saloon  to  talk  it  over. 
They  stayed  so  long  that  when  they  came  out  neither  had  a 
very  clear  idea  of  what  had  occurred  except  that  they  had  sworn 
to  be  lifelong  friends.  Neither  could  remember  what  had  be- 
come of  my  pistol.  The  colonel  offered  me  a  brand  new  one,  but 
I  refused,  being  more  than  satisfied  at  the  peaceful  solution  of 
the  question.  After  awhile  all  obstacles  were  overcome  and  the 
old  court  house  was  torn  down  and  the  new  one  erected.  That 
one  stood  there  until  lately  torn  down  to  make  place  for  the 
present  magnificent  building. 

This  briefly  is  a  history  of  the  Harris  County  court  house  and 
from  it  it  is  evident  that  the  present  court  house  is  the  fourth 
brick  building  erected  on  that  square,  whether  the  county  records 
show  such  to  be  the  case  or  not. 

*  *  * 

A   DEADLY   FIGHT 

A  FEW   evenings    ago   I   was   talking   with    Captain   T.   H. 
Hunter,  formerly  of  Huntsville,  but  at  present  a  citizen 
of  Houston,  about  the  Cortena  trouble  on  the  Rio  Grande 
in  1859.     Captain  Hunter  was  a  Texas  state  ranger  at  that  time 
and  took  an  active  part  in  the  campaign  against  the  Mexican 
outlaw    and    his    followers.    During    the    conversation    Captain 
Hunter  mentioned  the  fact  that  he  and  some  members  of  his 
command  had  on  one  occasion  escorted  Judge  E.  J.  Davis  into 
Brownsville.     The  mention  of  the  name  of  Judge  Davis  awakened 
in  me  many  bitter  memories,  as  it  always  will  do  with  any  old 


232 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

Texan,  for  he  was  the  scion  of  E.  J.  Davis,  who  earned  such 
an  undesirable  reputation  as  the  governor  of  Texas  during  the 
reconstruction  days. 

Judge  Davis  was  a  Union  man,  so  when  Texas  withdrew  from 
the  Union  he  went  North.  Having  gone  North,  he  did  more 
than  some  others  who  left  with  him — he  went  into  the  army 
and  fought  against  us.  Since  in  refusing  to  stand  by  Texas  in 
its  fight  against  the  North  was  a  matter  of  principle  with  him, 
I  do  not  blame  him  at  all  for  what  he  did.  His  entering  the 
Federal  army  showed  that  he  was  willing  to  fight  for  his  prin- 
siple  and  I  admire  him  for  that.  Had  he  stopped  then  no  Texan 
would  have  ever  had  the  right  to  complain,  but  after  the  war  his 
acts  as  a  governor,  backed  by  bayonets,  were  so  outrageous  that 
no  true  Texan  can  or  ever  will  forgive  him. 

I  am  not  familiar  with  his  record  as  a  soldier  during  the  war. 
All  I  know  of  it  is  the  last  and  closing  chapter.  Soon  after  the 
Federal  troops  took  possession  of  Houston  Colonel  E.  J.  Davis 
arrived  with  his  regiment.  It  sounded  very  funny  then  and 
sounds  a  bit  funny  yet,  but  this  regiment  was  called  the  First 
Texas  Regiment,  and  was  known  to  the  remainder  of  the  army 
as  a  genuine  Texas  regiment,  loyal  to  the  Union.  I  know  it  is  not 
prejudice  that  makes  me  say  it,  for  any  one  who  ever  saw  that 
regiment  will  say  the  same  thing,  they  were  the  greatest  aggre- 
gation of  scoundrels  and  cutthroats  that  ever  disgraced  a  uni- 
form. So  far  as  being  Texans  is  concerned,  I  don't  think  there 
was  a  genuine  Texan  in  the  whole  lot,  though  doubtless  there 
were  some  who  had  a  right  to  claim  that  they  had  lived  in  Texas. 
They  were  mostly  low  down  Mexicans  with  a  good  sprinkling  of 
negroes,  and  they  all  looked  as  if  they  had  been  recruited  from 
the  jails  and  penitentiaries.  Where  Colonel  Davis  ever  found  so 
many  outlaws  and  how  he  ever  kept  even  the  semblance  of  au- 
thority over  them  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me. 

They  had  not  been  here  long  before  highway  robberies,  slug- 
gings  and  other  outrages,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  be- 
came of  almost  nightly  occurrence.  Finding  that  their  would-be 
victims  were  prepared  for  them  too  often  for  their  own  safety, 
and  after  one  or  two  of  them  had  been  found  dead  on  the  streets 
with  the  telltale  slungshot  knotted  to  their  wrists,  they  turned 
their  attention  to  other  and  safer  modes  of  plunder.  They  took 
to  raiding  nearby  farm  houses,  ill  treating  the  occupants  and 
carrying  off  everything  of  value  they  could  lay  their  hands-on. 
They  did  not  go  in  twos  or  threes,  but  went  in  force  and  as  no 
notice  of  their  intended  raids  was  ever  given  they  had  things 
their  own  way. 

One  bright  moonlit  night  in  the  fall  of  1865,  Mrs.  W.  E.  Rog- 
ers, widow  of  the  gallant  Colonel  Rogers,  who  died*  so  bravely 
at  the  head  of  the  Second  Texas  regiment  at  Fort  Robinett,  near 
Corinth,  Miss.,  during  the  war,  was  aroused  from  her  sleep  by 
blows  on  her  front  door.  She  and  her  two  daughters  were  alone 
at  their  home  near  Eureka,  on  the  Houston  and  Texas  Central 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 233 

Railway,  five  miles  northwest  of  the  city.  The  ladies  were  badly 
frightened,  of  course,  and  were  terrified  when,  on  peeping  out, 
they  saw  a  crowd  of  men  on  the  front  gallery  and  others  in  the 
yard.  They  paid  no  attention  to  the  raps  on  the  door  and  those 
outside,  growing  impatient,  burst  the  door  open  with  the  butts 
of  their  guns  and  entered  the  house.  The  nearest  neighbor  was 
two  miles  away,  but  the  outlaws  took  no  chances  of  outcries 
being  heard,  or  of  an  escape  being  made,  and  help  summoned. 
They  bound  and  gagged  the  ladies  and,  tying  them  securely  to 
bed  posts,  they  proceeded  to  ransack  the  house  at  their  leisure. 
They  broke  open  trunks,  bureaus,  wardrobes ;  in  fact,  everything 
they  thought  might  contain  money  or  jewelry,  and  made  a  clean 
sweep  of  everything  they  could  lay  their  hands  on.  After  they 
had  gotten  everything  in  sight  they  left,  leaving  a  scene  of  ruin 
and  desolation  behind  them. 

Now,  if  they  had  been  satisfied  with  the  plunder  they  had,  all 
might  have  been  well  with  them,  temporarily  at  least.  That 
was  not  to  be,  however.  Their  thirst  for  plunder  was  insatiate 
and  they  turned  from  the  Rogers  home  to  that  of  an  old  German 
named  Bache,  who  lived  with  his  wife  and  two  sons  on  a  small 
farm  about  two  miles  nearer  town,  about  opposite  where  Hous- 
ton Heights  now  is.  Old  man  Bache  was  about  as  tough  a  cus- 
tomer as  they  could  possibly  have  tackled.  He  would  rather 
fight  than  eat  any  time  and  everybody  except  those  outlaws  of 
Davis'  regiment  knew  that  fact.  His  two  sons,  though  quite 
young  fellows,  were  "chips  off  the  old  block,"  so  the  trio  made 
a  strong  combination. 

About  two  hours  after  the  Rogers  robbery,  old  man  Rache  was 
aroused  from  his  sleep  by  a  noise  in  his  yard.  He  got  up  and 
saw  a  couple  of  men  coming  toward  the  house.  He  seized  his 
gun  and  called  to  them  to  halt.  They  paid  no  attention  to  him, 
but  continued  to  advance.  He  fired  and  one  of  the  foremost  fell. 
The  fire  was  returned  and  the  doors  and  windows  were  riddled. 
The  sons  came  to  the  rescue  of  their  father  and  for  a  time  a 
pitched  battle  was  fought.  The  casualties  were  heavy,  but  they 
were  all  on  the  side  of  the  outlaws.  Finally  the  ammunition  of 
the  Baches  gave  out,  a  fact  which  was  recognized  by  the  out- 
laws when  the  brisk  fire  from  the  house  ceased,  and  they  pre- 
pared to  take  the  place  by  storm.  Finally  they  charged  and 
broke  the  door  down,  thus  gaining  admittance  to  the  house. 
That  move  on  their  part  was  fatal,  for  old  man  Bache  had  a 
cavalry  saber,  which  he  used  with  such  skill  and  deadly  effect 
that  he  killed  three  of  them  before  they  could  escape.  The 
others  fled,  leaving  their  dead  on  the  ground,  but  taking  away 
their  wounded. 

It  was  nearly  daylight  now,  so  old  man  Bache  sent  one  of  his 
sons  to  town  to  notify  the  authorities  to  come  out  and  take  the 
dead  men  away.  When  it  was  learned  that  the  dead  men  were 
soldiers,  a  detail  of  soldiers  was  sent  after  them,  but  by  the  time 


234 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

the  detail  got  there  old  man  Bache  had  changed  his  mind  and 
had  become  so  well  pleased  with  his  performance  that  he  con- 
cluded to  keep  the  bodies  himself.  The  argument  he  used  was 
that  he  had  killed  them  and  that  they  were  his  personal  property, 
just  as  a  deer  or  bear  would  have  been.  Finally  his  friends 
persuaded  him  to  give  them  up  and  the  bodies  were  turned  over 
to  the  soldiers. 

When  the  bodies  were  searched  some  of  Mrs.  Rogers'  jewelry 
was  found  on  them,  showing  that  they  were  the  same  scoundrels 
who  had  robbed  her  house. 

When  I  heard  Captain  Hunter  mention  Davis'  name,  memory 
of  this  outlaw  regiment  came  back  to  me,  and  I  thought  of  the 
last  fight  some  of  its  members  ever  made  and  of  what  a  proper 
and  fitting  ending  it  would  have  been  for  the  whole  regiment. 


UNCLE  DAN  AND  UNCLE  DICK. 

WHEN  the  Republicans  and  scalawags  were  manipulating 
the  ballots  and  ballot  boxes  in  the  early  70's  they  little 
dreamed  that  they  were  giving  object  lessons  and  in- 
troducing methods  that  were  later  to  be  used  with  telling  effect 
against  themselves.  And  that  is  just  exactly  what  they  were 
doing,  and  wherever  the  Democrats  secured  a  foothold  they  took 
pains  to  insure  against  it  falling  into  Republican  hands  again  by 
doing  a  little  manipulating  themselves.  Occasionally  it  was 
necessary  to  overcome  a  Republican  majority  by  such  crude  and 
violent  methods  as  carrying  off  a  ballot  box  by  stealth  or  force, 
thus  destroying  the  vote  of  an  entire  precinct  which  was  known 
to  be  largely  Republican  and  which  held  the  balance  of  power 
in  the  election.  Such  things  did  occur,  however,  but  the  gentle- 
manly and  clean  way  was  to  stuff  the  ballot  box  by  removing  the 
genuine  ballots  and  substituting  others.  The  present  generation 
would  hold  up  their  hands  in  genuine  horror  if  such  a  thing  were 
proposed  now  and  would  cry  out  that  tampering  with  the  purity 
of  the  ballot  box  is  striking  at  the  very  root  of  our  government. 
That  is  eminently  correct,  too,  for  this  day,  but  it  must  be  borne 
in  mind  that  at  that  day  the  ballot  box  had  little  or  no  purity 
about  it  and  that  the  form  of  government  the  carpetbaggers  and 
scalawags  were  trying  to  establish  had  such  roots  that  it  became 
the  patriotic  duty  of  every  lover  of  his  country  to  destroy  them. 
It  may  have  been  a  technical  and  nominally  legal  offense  to 
suppress  or  destroy  the  ballots,  but  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  cast  and  the  conditions  they  aimed  to  perpetuate 
made  it  a  crime  against  good  government  not  to  destroy  them. 
That  is  the  way  the  white  people  felt  then  and  I  don't  think 
there  is  one  still  living  who  passed  through  those  trying  days, 
but  who  feels  something  of  pride  in  having  taken  part  in  the 
good  work. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 235 

Occasionally  funny  things  would  occur  when,  for  instance,  an 
election  would  be  contested  and  it  became  necessary  to  open 
the  boxes  and  recount  the  votes.  Then  it  was  often  found  that 
some  loud-mouthed  Democrat  had  voted  for  "the  other  fellow," 
which  fact,  no  doubt,  inspired  "Uncle  Dick"  Westcott  to  compile 
his  famous  list  known  as  his." book." 

After  the  Democrats  had  succeeded  in  getting  control  of  affairs 
in  Harris  County  they  had  hard  work  in  holding  it,  there  being 
so  many  white  Republicans  and  negroes  here  that  every  Demo- 
cratic vote  was  needed,  hence  any  backsliding  or  treason  was 
looked  upon  with  scorn  and  contempt.  "Uncle  Dick"  Westcott 
was  a  Democrat  at  whose  feet  Thomas  Jefferson  and  Andrew 
Jackson  might  have  sat.  He  held  Democracy  far  above  religion 
or  anything  else.  He  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable  men  I 
ever  knew  and  was  the  first  political  boss  Harris  County  ever 
had.  His  business  was  different  from  that  of  the  modern  "boss." 
He  did  not  try  to  dictate  to  the  voters  who  should  be  elected  to 
office  except  in  rare  cases,  when  he  was  personally  interested 
in  a  would-be  candidate,  but  he  made  it  his  business  to  see'  that 
every  Democratic  voter  did  his  duty  and  also  to  see  that  all  de- 
linquents were  held  up  to  scorn.  P»£»nCTOft  USyf^ST^ 

Now,  early  in  the  fight  Uncle  Dick  had  been  elected  county 
clerk  and  since  all  the  ballot  boxes  were  placed  in  his  keeping 
after  an  election,  he  had  a  sure  way  of  finding  out  just  how  every 
vote  had  been  cast.  If  he  had  suspicion  that  Smith  had  not  voted 
right,  he  would  open  the  ballot  from  from  Smith's  ward  or  pre- 
cinct and  set  all  doubt  aside  by  looking  at  Smith's  ballot.  Of 
course,  he  never  boasted  of  doing  this  and  nobody  was  able  to 
prove  that  he  did  it,  but  he  knew  too  many  things  about  the 
ballots  and  of  how  this  man  and  that  man  had  scratched  the 
ticket  to 'admit  of  any  other  explanation  as  to  the  source  of  his 
information.  About  tjje  first  intimation  that  he  had  real  and 
genuine  inside  information  about  the  ballots  was  given  soon  after 
an  election  in  which  Uncle  Dick  had  been  re-elected  over  quite 
a  popular  Republican  opponent.  A  very  prominent  and  well 
known  lawyer  met  Uncle  Dick  and  congratulated  him  on  his 
election. 

"If  you  are  so  glad  I. am  elected,  why  were  you  not  glad  enough 
before  the  election  to  vote  for  me  and  why  did  you  vote  against 
me?"  he  asked. 

The  lawyer  was  dumbfounded  and  did  not  know  what  to  say. 
He  mumbled  something  and  left.  He  had  a  moment  before  been 
telling  .some  gentleman  what  a  fine  official  and  man  Uncle  Dick 
was,  but  after  his  interview  with  Uncle  Dick  he  was  heard  to 
say: 

"That  old  rascal  has  been  opening  the  ballot  boxes  and  should 
be  in  the  penitentiary  instead  of  in  the  county  clerk's  office." 

Occasionally  Uncle  Dick  allowed  his  zeal  to  get  away  with  his 
judgment,  and,  as  the  gamblers  say,  he  overplayed  his  hand.  A 


236 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

striking  and  well  remembered  instance  of  that  was  when  Judge 
John  Kerlicks  was  a  candidate  for  some  county  office  against 
the  late  Captain  A.  K.  Taylor.  The  returns,  I  believe,  showed 
the  election  of  Kerlicks,  but  the  result  was  so  close  that  Taylor 
contested  the  election  and  brought  suit  in  the  District  Court. 
When  the  case  came  up  for  trial  the  first  box  opened  was  that 
from  Wescott  precinct.  Uncle  Dick's  home  box.  There  were 
more  ballots  found  than  there  were  votes  out  that  way,  and  there 
was  such  evidence  that  the  ballots  had  been  manipulated  that 
the  whole  vote  from  that  precinct  was  thrown  out,  thus  leaving 
a  sure  majority  for  Captain  Taylor,  who  was  given  the  office. 
While  all  the  Democrats  regretted  the  result,  for  they  wanted 
to  see  John  Kerlicks  elected,  yet  they  realized  that  the  case  was 
not  so  bad  as  it  might  have  been,  for  though  Captain  Taylor  was 
a  Republican  he  was  a  clean  man  and  had  never  affiliated  with 
the  scalawag  Republicans  and  carpetbaggers.  He  made  a  good 
official  and  to  the  day  of  his  death  was  one  of  the  most  honored 
and  reputable  citizens  of  Houston. 

Uncle  Dick  Westcott  and  Uncle  Dan  McGary  were  two  of  the 
most  remarkable  characters  who  ever  lived  in  Houston.  Uncle 
Dan  owned  and  edited  the  Age,  and  whenever  an  election  was 
to  be  pulled  off  Uncle  Dick  helped  him  with  his  editorial  work. 
Either  one  was  a  hot  wire  and  made  little  use  of  parliamentary 
language  when  discussing  a  Republican  candidate  or  his  adher- 
ents, so  when  the  two  put  their  heads  together  and  produced 
an  article  it  was  something  long  to  be  remembered.  They  said 
just  what  they  thought  and  as  it  was  generally  understood  that 
they  willingly  held  themselves  personally  responsible  for  any 
and  all  of  their  utterances  no  one  had  cause  to  complain.  Uncle 
Dan  was  particularly  bitter,  for  he  had  had  experience.  He  had 
tried  to  edit  a  Democratic  paper  in  Brenham  but  had  made  it 
so  hot  that  the  Republican  voters  burned  down  his  office  and 
the  Republican  officials  placed  him  in  jail  where  he  remained 
for  some  time.  When  he  got  out  of  jail  he  came  to  Houston  and 
started  the  Age.  He  and  Uncle  Dick  joined  hands  and  though 
as  a  rule  the  Age  was  practically  the  same  paper  day  after  day, 
Uncle  Dan  using  the  same  matter  all  the  time,  when  an  election 
was  coming  on  all  that  was  changed  and  the  Age  became  one 
of  the  livest  sheets  imaginable.  Both  these  old  war  horses  have 
long  since  gone  to  their  reward.  Peace  to  their  ashes! 
*  *  * 

A   BIG   NEWSPAPER   SCOOP. 

ALL   old   citizen.s   and   newspaper   men   remember   the   big 
Post  published  in  Houston  in  1883.    It  was  the  biggest 
and  best  paper  ever  published  in  the  South  up  to  that 
time  and  a  good  sized  fortune  was  spent  in  keeping  it  going 
during  the  year  of  its  existence.     Hardenbrook  was  general  man- 
ager and  looked  after  the  business  end,  while  Tobe  Mitchell  was 
managing  editor.    Both  were  wide  awake  newspaper  men,  Har- 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 237 

denbrook  being  graduated  from  the  New  York  newspapers,  while 
Mitchell  had  been  for  years  one  of  McCullough's  assistants  on 
the  Globe-Democrat  of  St.  Louis.  Judge  J.  W.  Johnson,  having 
spent  a  lot  of  money  and  wrecked  the  Post,  which  he  owned,  in 
a  futile '  attempt  to  beat  John  Ireland,  the  Democratic  nominee 
for  governor,  with  Wash.  Jones,  who  ran  as  an  independent,  con- 
cluded that  running  a  newspaper  was  not  his  forte,  so  he  sold 
the  paper  to  a  number  of  Houston  capitalists,  headed  by  Mr.  W. 
R.  Baker.  These  gentlemen  knew  absolutely  nothing  about 
newspapers,  but  they  knew  that  Houston  and  Texas  needed  a 
first  class  Democratic  paper,  se  they  determined  to  risk  their 
money  in  trying  to  establish  that  paper.  The  Galveston  News 
had  secured  a  strong  foothold  in  Houston,  so  it  was  recognized 
that  the  Post  must  be  made  superior  to  the  News  in  every  way 
if  it  hoped  to  gain  ground  and  drive  out  the  News. 

Hardenbrook  was  given  all  the  money  he  asked  for  to  look 
after  business  matters,  while  Tobe  Mitchell  was  allowed  to  spend 
money  freely  in  gathering  news.  Both  knew  how  to  spend  money 
and  the  result  was  that  the  Post  soon  took  first  place  among 
the  papers  of  the  South  and  compared  favorably  with  those  pub- 
lished anywhere. 

Tobe  Mitchell  had  a  splendid  staff;  one  that  it  would  be  hard 
to  beat  anywhere.  He  paid  large  salaries  and  was  enabled  to 
get  the  very  best  newspaper  talent,  not  only  in  Texas,  but  fro-m 
other  states.  Tobe  was  an  enthusiastic  and  untiring  worker  him- 
self and  had  the  happy  faculty  of  creating  enthusiasm  in  others, 
and  he  could  get  more  hard  work  out  of  the  men  without  having 
them  feel  that  he  was  doing  so,  than  any  other  managing  editor 
I  have  ever  met.  He  was  quick  to  appreciate  good  work  and 
equally  quick  to  condemn  anything  that  was  careless  or  slipshod. 
At  that  time  there  was  no  literary  syndicate  that  furnished  col- 
umns or  pages  of  ready  made  articles  for  Sunday  editions.  We 
had  to  make  our  own  Sunday  editions  and  every  man  on  the 
paper  that  had  talent  in  that  direction  became  a  space  writer 
for  the  Sunday  paper.  There  were  short  stories,  special  articles, 
poetry  and  sketches  of  various  kinds  and  on  the  whole  the  Sun- 
day edition  was  quite  a  creditable  affair. 

The  Post  was  noted  for  one  thing — the  rapid  changes  that 
took  place  on  the  staff.  It  was  strictly  the  "survival  of  the 
fittest,"  for  Mitchell  would  fire  at  a  moment's  notice  any  man 
on  the  paper  who  showed  that  he  could  not  keep  step  with  the 
others.  I  remember  an  occasion  when  he  came  very  near  firing 
every  man  on  the  local  staff,  including  the  city  editor  himself. 
There  was  a  young  man  on  the  staff  named  Sherman  who  came 
from  no  one  knew  where.  He  was  quiet,  unobstrusive  and  a 
fair  worker. 

At  times  Sherman  was  dreamy  and  appeared  to  be  under  the 
influence  of  some  drug,  and  he  was  supposed  by  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  staff  to  "hit  the  pipe,"  which  was  a  new  thing  in 
Houston  at  that  time.  He  did  his  work  well,  however,  and  we 


238 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

were  greatly  surprised  one  night  when  he  came  out  of  Mitchell's 
room  about  8  o'clock  and  told  us  that  he  had  been  "fired."  He 
took  his  hat  and  left  and  we  thought  nothing  more  of  the  matter. 
We  were  somewhat  surprised  about  midnight  to  see  Sherman 
come  in  with  a  big  roll  of  manuscript  in  his  hand  and  go  into 
Mitchell's  office.  He  stayed  in  there  for  half  an  hour  and  when 
he  came  out,  instead  of  leaving  he  went  over  to  his  old  desk  and 
seated  himself.  Then  Mitchell  came  out  and  lit  into  the  local 
staff  and  city  editor.  He  said  all  kinds  of  things  to  them.  I 
have  forgotten  just  what  he  did  say,  but  I  remember  his  telling 
them  that  Sherman  was  the  only  genuine  newspaper  man  in  the 
crowd  and  that  he  was  the  only  one  who  could  tell  a  piece  of 
news  from  last  year's  almanac.  Then  the  facts  came  out.  Sher- 
man had  gotten  hold  of  a  big  news  item,  had  worked  it  up  all 
alone  and  had  not  only  "scooped"  the  News,  but  had  scooped  the 
local  staff  of  the  Post  as  well.  Sherman,  after  he  had  been 
fired  that  evening  had  gone  over  in  the  Fifth  Ward  for  some 
purpose.  On  his  return  about  10  o'clock  he  had  crossed  the 
bayou  at  Milam  Street  bridge  and  had  come  up  Milam  Street. 
There  was  an  Irish  boarding  house  and  barroom  on  Milam 
Street  near  Congress  run  by  a  man  named  Flyn.  Sherman 
stopped  there  to  get  a  drink  and  while  there  learned  that  there 
was  a  man  upstairs  in  one  of  the  rooms  who  had  taken  poison 
and  that  a  doctor  was  working  on  him  then.  Sherman  at  once 
went  up  to  investigate  and  what  he  found  was  plenty,  for  the 
man  proved  to  be  no  other  than  Major  Robinett,  an  engineer  in 
the  United  States  army,  who  for  some  unknown  cause  had  sought 
this  out  of  the  way  place  and  had  poisoned  himself.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  Sherman  did  not  know  what  a  big  news  item  he  had  un- 
earthed. The  mere  fact  that  a  distinguished  army  officer  had 
attempted  to  kill  himself  in  a  low  Irish  boarding  house  was  good 
enough  for  him  and  he  worked  it  up  for  all  it  was  worth.  But 
when  the  fact  became  known  in  the  office  Sherman  found  that 
he  was  a  regular  hero  as  a  news  gatherer,  for  he  had  unearthed 
a  big  item  of  great  local  interest  and  value.  This  Major  Robi- 
nett was  the  same  engineer  who  had  constructed  Fort  Robinett, 
near  Corinth,  Miss.,  which  bore  his  name,  and  it  was  against  the 
fort  that  the  Second  Texas  Infantry  Regiment  under  command 
of  the  gallant  Rogers,  had  been  hurled  when  instead  of  a  regi- 
ment a  half  dozen  brigades  should  have  been  sent.  A  great 
blunder  had  been  made,  the  Second  Texas  had  been  nearly  anni- 
hilated and  Balaclava  had  been  surpassed  when  that  fatal  charge 
had  ended  and  that  was  all.  The  Second  Texas  was  made  up 
largely  from  Houston  and  nearby  points,  so  the  local  interest  in 
the  item  is  apparent.  The  pressman  on  the  Post  was  Captain 
Birtwhistle,  a  Federal  veteran,  who  had  served  with  Major  Robi- 
nett in  the  Mississippi  campaign  and  remembered  the  major 
well,  Captain  Birtwhistle  was  in  Fort  Robinet  when  the  fatal 
charge  of  the  Second  Texas  was  made.  The  captain  came  to 
the  editorial  room  and  he  and  I,  the  only  two  who  knew  anything 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 239 

about  it,  completed  Sherman's  article  and  when  we  got  through 
Tobe  Mitchell  closed  everything  off  the  front  page  and  next 
morning  the  Post  had  a  magnificent  scoop  over  everybody  and 
everything. 

Sherman  was  reinstated  in  his  old  position,  of  course,  but  a 
few  weeks  later  he  quit  voluntarily  and  left  town,  and  I  have 
never  heard  of  him  since.  A  few  months  later  the  Post  quit 
also  and  the  staff  was  scattered  to  the  four  winds.  Some  went 
to  New  York,  others  to  Chicago,  New  Orleans,  St.  Louis  and 
other  places.  Mitchell  went  back  to  the  Globe-Democrat  at  St. 
Louis  and  died  there  a  few  years  ago. 
*  *  * 

A   FAMOUS    ROBBER, 

Itook  a  car  ride  out  to  Woodland  Heights  the  other  day.  As 
I  passed  Beauchamp  Springs  I  thought  of  old  man  Kirken- 
dall,  one  of  the  famous  characters  of  early  days,  whose 
home  was  on  the  hill  on  the  north  side  of  the  bayou,  not  far 
from  the  big  spring  that  used  to  be  just  south  of  the  bridge  that 
crosses  White  Oak  Bayou.  Kirkendall  was  an  intelligent,  cool, 
calculating  scoundrel  and  was  the  best  hated  and  most  feared 
man  in  or  near  Houston.  He  was  so  bold  in  the  manner  in 
which  he  stole  cattle  and  horses  and  committed  other  depreda- 
tions that  it  was  a  wonder  he  was  never  caught  and  convicted 
for  some  of  his  many  crimes.  He  was  generally  credited  with 
committing  every  crime  except  murder  and  though  he  was  ar- 
rested and  tried  seven  times  he  always  managed  to  get  free. 
He  was  a  powerful  man.  His  frame  was  massive.  He  was 
about  five  feet  seven  or  eight  inches  high,  broad  of  shoulder  and 
as  strong  as  an  ox.  His  right-hand  man  was  one  of  his  slaves 
named  Pompey.  Had  Pompey  been  free  and  therefore  able  to 
do  as  he  pleased,  he  could  have  made  a  fortune  exhibiting  him- 
self as  a  giant.  He  was  so  tall  that  one  feels  inclined  to  become 
indifferent  in  speaking  of  his  height  and  to  say  that  he  was 
either  six  feet  seven  inches  or  seven  feet  six  inches  tall.  After 
seeing  him  one  would  be  inclined  to  accept  either  statement  as 
true.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  was  six  feet  seven  inches  and  he 
was  superbly  formed  in  every. way.  He  was  loyalty  and  devo- 
tion itself  and  absolutely  devoid  of  fear.  He  knew  nothing  ex- 
cept to  obey  Kirkendall,  who  had  absolute  confidence  in  him, 
knowing  that  he  was  too  courageous  to  be  frightened  into  giving 
any  of  his  dark  secrets  away. 

For  years  Kirkendall  stole  cattle,  branding  those  that  were 
not  branded,  and  changing  the  brands  of  those  that  were,  until 
he  owned  one  of  the  largest  herds  of  cattle  on  Montgomery 
prairie,  which  was  north  of  his  home.  He  did  not  confine  his 
operations  to  stealing  cattle  and  horses,  however.  When  op- 
portunity presented  itself  he  was  a  burglar  and  more  than  often 
he  made  the  opportunity  when  one  did  not  present  itself.  He 
was  a  wholesale  burglar,  too.  When  he  had  made  his  way  into 


240 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

a  grocery  store,  he  was  not  content  with  a  few  cigars,  a  plug 
or  two  of  tobacco,  a  box  of  sardines  or  a  bottle  of  pickles;  none 
of  that  kind  of  burglarizing  for  him.  He  took  the  whole  works. 
One  night  he  broke  into  Dan  Huebners'  grocery  store,  corner 
of  Preston  Avenue  and  Travis  Street,  and  he  and  Pompey  loaded 
everything  in  the  store  in  a  two-horse  wagon  and  drove  off  with 
it.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  stores  in  those  days  were 
small  affairs  and  none  of  them  carried  big  stocks  as  they  do 
now.  Of  course,  Kirkendall  was  suspected  and  officers  searched 
his  place,  but  they  found  nothing,  for  he  had  carefully  concealed 
everything  in  the  woods  far  away  from  home.  Both  he  and 
Pompey  were  arrested,  but  as  there  was  no  absolute  proof  against 
them  they  were  released  again.  Sheriff  Tom  Hogan  and  City 
Marshal  Bob  Boyce  tried  to  frighten  Pompey  into  making  a  con- 
fession, but  soon  had  to  give  it  up,  for  he  was  not  one  of  the 
scary  kind  and  only  laughed  at  them  and  held  his  tongue. 

But  this  success  in  robbing  Huebner's  store  led  to  their  un- 
doing. One  night  Kirkendall  and  Pompey  came  to  town  with 
their  wagon  and  broke  into  the  store  of  Mr.  Cornelius  Ennis, 
which  stood  where  the  office  of  the  Western  Union  Telegraph 
Company  is  now  located.  They  took  what  groceries  they  wanted 
and  then  picked  up  the  iron  safe,  which  was  not  a  very  large, 
one,  and  loaded  that  on  their  wagon.  They  took  their  plunder 
out  near  their  home,  dug  a  big  hole  on  the  bank  of  the  bayou, 
buried  the  safe,  and  left  it  there  to  be  opened  at  their  leisure. 

The  next  morning  when  Mr.  Ennis  discovered  his  loss,  he  called 
in  the  sheriff  and  city  marshal  and  they  did  not  waste  any  time 
by  looking  elsewhere,  but  went  right  out  and  brought  Kirkendall 
and  Pompey  in  and  placed  them  in  jail.  Then  they  gave  Pom- 
pey a  taste  of  what  might  be  called  the  third  degree.  They  *,ot 
a  rope,  took  him  out  in  the  jail  yard  and  swore  they  woull 
hang  him  if  he  did  not  tell  them  all  about  the  robbery.  Pompey 
really  believed  they  were  going  to  hang  him,  but  he  did  not 
weaken,  but  he  did  something  worse,  he  made  a  blunder.  He 
told  them  he  was  not  going  to  say  a  word  and  if  they  wanted  ro 
know  where  that  safe  was  they  would  have  to  go  to  Mr.  Kirken- 
dall for  the  information.  Now,  as  neither  Kirkendall  nor  Pom- 
pey had  been  told  what  they  were  arrested  for,  when  Pompey 
made  his  break  the  officers  knew  they  had  the  right  men.  They 
went  out  to  Beauchamp  Springs  and  made  a  thorough  search  of 
the  house,  woods  and  bayou,  and  they  found  the  tsafe  where 
it  had  been  buried  by  Kirkendall  and  Pompey.  Kirkendall  was 
indicted,  tried  and  convicted,  but  I  don't  know  what  was  done 
with  Pompey.  Kirkendall  was  sentenced  to  a  long  term  in  the 
penitentiary.  When  the  time  came  to  take  him  to  Huntsville 
he  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  a  big  wagon  with  two  guards  in 
front  and  two  behind,  and  one  riding  on  each  side  of  the  wagon. 
They  knew  he  was  a  desperate  man  and  the  head  of  a  band 
of  outlaws  of  unknown  strength,  and  it  was  feared  an  attempted 
rescue  would  be  made. 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 241 

It  was  a  week  or  two  before  Christmas  when  they  started  with 
him  and  as  they  drove  off  he  rattled  his  chains  and  called  out  to 
Captain  Boyce,  telling  him  goodbye,  and  also  informing  him  that 
he  intended  eating  his  Christmas  dinner  in  Houston.  The  cap- 
tain laughed  at  him,  but  Kirkendall  was  telling  the  truth,  for  a 
day  or  two  after  Christmas  officers  from  the  penitentiary  came 
to  Houston  looking  for  him  and  told  how  he  had  mysteriously 
escaped  a  few  days  before  Christmas. 

After  that  Kirkendall  left  the  country  and  was  seen  afterward 
in  California,  where  he  had  evidently  gone  direct  from  Texas. 
As  everybody  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  him  and  to  have  him  brought 
back  would  have  consumed  both  time  and  lots  of  money,  no 
effort  was  made  to  catch  him  and  he  died  there  several  years  ago. 


TWO  REMARKABLE  HORSE  RACES. 

IT  is  quite  evident,  to  me  at  least,  that  many  of  the  other 
old  Houstonians  are  beginning  to  look  on  me  as  a  kind  of 
historian  since  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  writing  a  few 
articles  for  The  Chronicle,  recalling  some  of  my  memories  of 
the  past.  My  daily  experience  with  these  old  Houstonians  is 
amusing  and  at  times  very  amusing.  I  seem  to  have  struck 
a  chord  which  has  aroused  their  latent  memories  and  I  am  every 
day  asked  about  men  and  events  that  lived  and  occurred  long 
before  I  was  born.  Then,  too,  there  are  the  critics.  These  I 
always  welcome,  for,  being  conscious  of  the  fact  that  I  am  not 
infallible,  I  am  desirous  of  being  corrected  whenever  in  error. 
It  is  amusing,  though,  to  hear  some  of  the  corrections.  For 
instance,  I  met  one  of  my  old-time  friends  the  other  day:  "I 
see,  old  man,  your  memory  is  bad,"  he  said.  "You  get  the  gen- 
eral drift  all  right,  but  I  see  breaks  here  and  there." 

I  owned  up  to  my  fallibility  and  asked  for  particulars. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  noticed  the  other  day  you  said  something 
about  a  thing  happening  on  Saturday,  when  I  know  it  happened 
on  a  Thursday." 

I  promptly  admitted  the  probability  of  his  being  right,  though 
I  had  reason  to  know  that  he  was  wrong.  I  asked  for  other  "bad 
breaks"  I  had  made. 

"Well,  you  made  one  that  made  me  nearly  fall  out  of  my  chair 
when  I  saw  it,"  said  he.  "You  spoke  of  old  man  Jack  Kennedy 
as  William  Kennedy  when  you  wrote  about  those  bomb  shells." 

I  cleared  myself  easily  on  that  point  by  telling  him  that  I  had 
written  "Mr.  Kenedy"  and  that  probably  my  bad  writing  was 
responsible  for  the  change  of  "Mr."  to  "Wm."  by  the  printer. 

Such  encounters  as  these  amuse  me,  but  there  are  others  that 
are  not  quite  so  pleasant.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  any  of  them 
is  disagreeable,  but  some  are  rather  boresome.  I  have  been  ap- 
proached, personally  and  by  letter,  by  people  who  want  informa- 
tion about  early  Houston  on  all  conceivable  subjects. 


242 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

"When  was  so  and  so's  headright  located?" 

"Who  was  the  original  owner  of  the  lots  where  the  Rice  Hotel 
now  stands?" 

"Do  you  remember  a  man  by  the  name  of  Jackson  who  came 
to  Texas  in  1836,  located  somewhere  near  Harrisburg  and  after- 
ward went  to  Philadelphia  in  1852  or  '53  and  died  there?" 

These  are  a  few  samples  of  the  inquiries  I  receive  nearly 
every  day.  The  other  day  I  received  a  call  from  a  very  pleasant 
old  gentleman  whom  I  had  never  seen  before.  I  admit  that  when 
1  heard  him  outside  inquiring  for  "old  man  Young"  I  felt  like 
going  out  and  mounting  him,  but  after  he  came  in  he  was  so 
pleasant  and  entertaining  that  I  was  sincerely  glad  he  had  come. 

He  wanted  information,  of  course,  and  it  was  about  a  race 
horse.  He  wanted  to  know  who  brought  a  certain  race  horse  to 
Houston,  cleaned  up  all  the  sports  here,  then  went  up  the  state 
and  repeated  the  operation  of  skinnin'  'em  up  there.  He  knew 
all  about  the  performances  of  the  horse,  but  could  not  find  out 
who  brought  him  to  Houston.  He  explained  that  his  question 
had  a  business  rather  than  a  sporting  intent,  for  on  the  identity 
of  the  importer  of  that  horse  hinged  the  ownership  of  a  valuable 
tract  of  land  either  in  or  near  Houston. 

I  was  sorry  that  I  could  not  help  him  out,  and  told  him  so. 
After  he  had  gone  I  got  to  thinking  of  old-time  horsemen  and 
race  horses  I  had  known.  I  found  that  my  acquaintance  in  that 
line  had  been  very  limited  and  that  I  could  recall  but  two  in- 
stances of  where  horse  races  had  left  any  impression  at  all  on 
my  mind,  and  in  both  of  these  it  was  the  results  rather  than  the 
races  themselves  that  I  remembered.  In  both  the  results  were 
disastrous  to  the  too  zealous  action  of  the  admirers  or  owners 
of  the  horses. 

In  1870,  and  for  a  few  years  after,  the  Texas  State  Fair  was 
held  in  Houston.  The  first  was  over  on  the  north  side  of  the 
bayou  and  was  in  Macatee's  warehouse.  The  next  year  the  asso- 
ciation purchased  the  old  Hadley  place  out  on  Main  Street,  known 
for  years  after  as  the  Fair  Grounds.  After  moving  out  there 
a  racing  association  was  organized  and  everything  was  done  to 
encourage  the  raising  of  fine  horses,  stock,  etc.  There  was  a 
good  race  course  laid  out,  and  some  good  races  were  pulled  off 
every  year.  There  was  one  fine  horse  named  after  Colonel  Scott 
Anderson  of  Eagle  Lake.  I  am  not  certain,  but  I  believe  Colonel 
Anderson  owned  this  horse.  On  one  point  I  am  certain — Scott 
Anderson  was  one  of  the  fleetest  and  best  horses  that  ever  ap- 
peared on  a  Texas  track. 

As  the  boys  say,  he  could  hold  one  hand  behind  him  and  whip 
any  horse  he  ever  came  in  competition  with.  Of  course,  when 
Scott  Anderson  showed  up  in  a  race  his  backers  had  to  give  big 
odds  to  get  any  bets  at  all  against  their  favorite.  One  of  the 
greatest  admirers,  and  strongest  backers  of  Scott  Anderson  on 
any  and  all  occasions  was  a  man  named  Gregory,  who  owned  a 


HOUSTON  AND  HOUSTONIANS 243 

saloon  on  the  southwest  corner  of  Main  Street  and  Congress 
Avenue.  Gregory  was  a  good  old  sport  and  gambler,  but  at  times 
he  was  rather  too  emotional  and  allowed  his  enthusiasm  to  run 
away  with  him,  as  the  following  shows: 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  the  racing  week,  and  a  big  crowd 
was  out  to  witness  the  coming  event,  a  race  with  half  a  dozen 
good  and  well  known  horses  entered,  among  them  the  famous 
Scott  Anderson.  The  horses  got  away  in  a  bunch,  but  Scott  An- 
derson soon  took  the  lead.  As  he  pulled  out  from  the  bunch 
Gregory  began  waving  a  handful  of  bills  over  his  head,  shouting: 
"One  hundred  to  twenty-five  that  Scott  Anderson  wins  the  race." 

There  were  no  takers,  for  Scott  Anderson  was  plainly  increas- 
ing the  distance  between  himself  and  his  competitors,  and  no 
one  cared  to  throw  away  money  by  betting  against  him.  "Two 
hundred  to  twenty-five ! "  "Three  hundred  to  twenty-five ! "  "Four 
hundred  to  twenty-five!"  shouted  Gregory. 

By  this  time  Scott  Anderson's  lead  was  so  great  that  even  a 
blind  man  could  see  that  he  had  the  race  grabbed.  But  Greg- 
ory was  so  anxious  to  get  a  bet  that  he  raised  his  odds. 

"Six  hundred  to  twenty-five!"  he  shouted. 

"That's  a  good  bet  if  I  lose  it,"  said  Rush  Hutchins,  who  was 
more  entertained  by  Gregory's  capers  than  he  was  by  the  race. 
"Here  Gregory,  put  up  your  money;  I  take  your  bet,"  he  said. 

Rush  produced  $25,  which  Gregory  covered  with  $600,  and  the 
whole  was  handed  to  a  stakeholder.  The  money  had  scarcely 
been  placed  when  Scott  Anderson  stumbled  and  fell,  injuring  his 
leg  so  badly  that  he  was  out  of  the  race  at  once.  Gregory  was 
too  good  a  sport  to  kick.  He  accepted  his  loss  gracefully  and 
if  he  ever  kicked  himself  for  allowing  his  enthusiasm  to  get  away 
with  him,  he  did  it  privately,  when  no  one  was  looking. 

Now,  the  other  races  I  remember  had  simliar  results,  but  from 
a  different  cause.  These  were  races  being  held  out  beyond  West- 
heimer's  place  up  on  Buffalo  Bayou.  The  city  has  extended  away 
out  there,  but  in  those  days  it  was  clear  out  in  the  country.  A 
man  named  Copping,  who,  with  his  brother,  owned  a  saloon  on 
Main  Street,  was  considerable  of  a  sport.  His  name  was  Tom, 
though  I  forget  his  brother's  name.  Tom  was  the  proud  owner 
of  a  bony-looking  gray  horse,  which  he  swore  could  outpace  any- 
thing that  ever  came  from  Pacerville.  There  was  good  reason 
for  his  faith  in  his  horse,  for  the  old  gray  beat  anything  he  went 
against.  Tom  was  not  only  willing  but  anxious  to  pit  him  against 
anything  that  showed  up.  He  would  go  against  running  horses, 
pacing  horses,  trotting  horses  and,  I  have  no  doubt  had  such 
things  existed  at  that  time,  he  would  have  pitted  him  against 
automobiles  and  motorcycles.  His  faith  in  his  old  gray  was  un- 
bounded. One  day  there  were  some  races  out  at  Westheimer's 
and  Tom  was  there  with  his  gray.  He  could  not  get  a  race 
against  his  horse,  so  he  gave  an  exhibition  spin  around  the  track. 
The  races  were  over  and  everybody  was  starting  t  otown.  There 


244 TRUE  STORIES  OF  OLD 

were  wagons,  carts,  omnibuses,  carriages,  wagons  and  men  on 
horseback. 

Every  mode  of  conveyance  of  that  day  was  represented.  Tom 
was  feeling  good,  and  he  called  to  one  of  his  friends,  who  was  in 
a  buggy  drawn  by  a  good  horse,  and  offered  to  bet  him  $300  to 
$50  that  he  could  give  him  a  half  a  mile  start  and  beat  him  to  his 
(Tom's)  barroom  on  Main  Etreet  between  Prairie  and  Preston 
Avenues.  The  other  fellow  hesitated  a  moment  and  then  took 
the  bet.  The  whole  crowd  stopped  to  see  the  performance.  The 
money  was  produced  and  a  tree  some  distance  ahead  was  agreed 
on  as  representing  a  fair  half  mile  start.  Some  carriages  and 
buggies  went  with  Tom's  opponent  to  see  that  a  fair  start  was 
made,  but  most  of  the  crowd  remained  with  Tom,  who  sat  in 
his  sulky  awaiting  the  signal.  When  the  tree  was  reached  a  yell 
was  raised  and  the  man  in  the  buggy  put  whip  to  his  horse  and 
started  for  town.  Tom  put  whip  to  the  gray  at  the  same  time. 
But  then  the  most  wonderful  thing  occurred.  The  old  gray,  who 
to  that  moment  had  never  failed  to  respond  to  Tom's  call  in  the 
most  proper  and  orthodox  manner,  stood  straight  up  on  his  hind 
legs  and  looked  over  his  right  shoulder  at  Tom.  He  did  not  move 
forward  one  inch.  Tom  was  too  amazed  to  do  anything.  He 
waited  until  the  gray  resumed  his  normal  position  and  then 
touched  him  up  with  the  whip  again.  The  gray  promptly  rose 
on  his  hind  legs  again,  and  this  time  looked  at  Tom  over  his 
left  shoulder.  That  was  too  much,  and  Tom  lit  into  him  with  the 
whip  in  good  fashion.  For  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  they  had  it 
up  and  down  all  over  the  prairie.  Finally  Tom  conquered,  but  it 
was  too  late,  and  when  he  reached  his  saloon  he  found  his  op- 
ponent there  "settin'  'em  up"  to  everybody  in  the  place. 

Now,  these  are  the  only  race  horses  I  remember  anything  about, 
and  it  is  quite  evident  that  neither  of  them  could  under  any  cir- 
cumstances be  of  the  slightest  assistance  in  adjusting  the  own- 
ership of  a  tract  of  land. 


Q 


